


Into Darkness

by fancyh



Series: Bound in Blood [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Brainwashing, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Howling Commandos - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Torture, Vampire Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-09 21:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 87,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14723834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyh/pseuds/fancyh
Summary: "God, I thought I lost you, Buck," Steve breathes. "I was ready to walk to Austria to find you. And I don't care if you're a...vampire, or whatever. You're still Bucky. You're still mine."Bucky pulls back just enough to press his lips to Steve's in a chaste kiss, mindful of the blood in his mouth. "I'm scared, Steve," he admits, staring into blue eyes that haven't changed even though everything else has. "I don't know what's happening to me."Steve's eyes tighten. "We'll figure it out. I promise."***A story of seventy years written in blood. Where Steve goes, Bucky follows, and where Bucky goes, Steve follows. From life, unto death. Till the end of the line.





	1. Chapter 1

He is on fire. His blood burns and every cell screams in agony, _he_ is screaming as Zola watches, empty syringe lying on the table as a drop of red falls from the needle to splash against the floor, the red that is now in Bucky's veins, consuming him, eating him alive and he knows-he knows this is it, he is dying and he sends up one last prayer,  _Ave Maria, gratia plena, please protect Steve-_

***

He blinks open his eyes. He is on the table, and the fire is gone, though his body aches and his head feels fuzzy and wrong and as he looks around Zola steps up, face swimming in his vision.

"Sergeant Barnes." His beady eyes glitter with excitement. "How do you feel?"

Bucky turns his head back to stare upwards at the ceiling. "James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038." His voice is hoarse from screaming.

Zola's fingers find his wrist, taking his pulse. "Extraordinary. You are still alive. No one else has survived the procedure. Tell me, do you feel any different?"

"James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038."

Zola's hands find his face, tilting it this way and that as he mutters to himself, Bucky too exhausted and hazy to put up a fight as he mumbles his name, rank, and service number over and over, Zola's voice echoing in his ears. "Bleeding from the ears, facial bruising remarkably more healed than before, skin lividity normal..."

Bucky stares at the ceiling and drifts away as Zola continues to examine him. He doesn't know how long he's been on this table, since he was dragged here beaten and bruised by guards and strapped down, since Zola injected him with things that made his blood burn and asked him questions as Bucky repeated the same thing over and over- _name, rank, serial number,_ what they were told to do under torture only he'd never expected to use it, never expected to end up in this godforsaken factory being experimented on by a mad scientist, never wanted to go to war, never wanted to leave Steve alone and he thinks he will probably never see Steve again, hopes he is okay, prays that he won't get into trouble but knows it's futile; Steve will never back down from a fight and it will be the death of him. Steve has always lived on the verge of death, but it turns out it will be Bucky that goes first and there is a certain irony in that. He's never contemplated death before, too worried about Steve to consider his own mortality, and he knows he will not die some heroic death, a war hero, or even saving Steve; no, he will die alone and forgotten on a table, in a factory, in the middle of Austria, leaving Steve alone and breaking his family's hearts.

"Bucky."

He opens his eyes groggily, not knowing when he had closed them.

"Oh my god," the voice says.

There is a figure swimming in his vision, moving, and then the straps pinning him down are torn away as he turns his head slightly to see, a familiar face materializing in front of his eyes but... _wrong,_ and what is Steve doing here, is this a dream?

"Is tha-?" he slurs.

"It's me," the Steve-hallucination says. "It's Steve."

Bucky smiles slightly. "Steve." He is glad Steve is here with him, at the end, even if it's only a dream.

"Come on." Strong hands pull him off the table and that is wrong, this isn't-this isn't a hallucination, he thinks, as clarity rushes in and Steve claps the side of his head, familiar blue eyes worried and his face is the same, it is Steve- "I thought you were dead," Steve breathes.

Bucky looks him up and down, his body utterly unrecognizable and twice the size of before, definitely not Steve but his face and eyes are the same as he looks at Bucky and Bucky doesn't know what is happening, is this a hallucination or is this real?

"I thought you were smaller."

There's a distant sound and Steve looks around before gripping Bucky tighter and helping him forwards. "Come on."

Bucky leans on Steve as he stumbles forwards, body aching and weak but real, everything feels so real and it can't be a hallucination. "What happened to you?" he manages.

"I joined the Army," Steve replies, and it's such a bullshit answer and so  _Steve_ that Bucky knows it must be him, that this is real, but what the hell really happened to Steve?

They make it into the hallway and Bucky pushes Steve away to stumble along on his own, strength coming back as he tugs his sleeve down over his arm, over the needle marks. "Did it hurt?"

"A little."  _Yeah right, Rogers, I bet it hurt a lot,_ Bucky thinks. He thinks of needles and his blood burning and wonders if that's what happened to Steve, though he thinks he doesn't look any different, unlike Steve. "Is it permanent?" he questions, wanting to know if he'll ever get his Steve back, if he's going to lose him, if  _ ~~what Zola did to him is permanent~~ -_

"So far."

The rest of the way is a blur, the only things real Steve by his side and Zola staring at him transfixed across the gap as a man peels off his face to reveal a skull-like face as red as blood underneath, and all Bucky can think of is red liquid and needles and Steve, looking so different and he wonders-he wonders-

"You don't have one of those, do you?"

There is no reply but he hopes, he prays, don't let Steve be turned into a monster, Bucky can take it but not Steve, Steve is too good and he shouldn't be here, he should be safe at home collecting scrap metal instead of getting punched by a Hydra member with no face and as Bucky gets to the other side, somehow balancing perfectly across the beam he looks back in desperation, willing to do anything if only it means Steve is safe.

"There's gotta be a rope or something!"

"Just go, get out of here!"

"No, not without you!"

He watches as Steve backs up, takes a deep breath, and runs, launching himself across the gap as explosions blossom beneath him. He crashes into the railing, bending it as he clings on and Bucky hauls him over, both of them breathing heavily. Steve claps Bucky on the shoulder, jogging towards the exit.

"Come on."

Bucky follows, everything blurring around him except for Steve and he stumbles after him blindly, explosions and gunfire and yelling ringing in his ears as they make their way out of the factory. There are men fleeing all around him, the factory going up in flames as the prisoners overtake Hydra. There's even a tank, and Bucky sees one of the guys from the cells, Falsworth, manning the blue guns on top. He and Steve follow the others to the woods, where more are waiting with stolen trucks, clustered around and already helping the most seriously injured into them. Bucky sees Dum Dum and one of the guys he recognizes from the cells and starts towards them, Steve starting to draw attention and being pulled away. Dum Dum turns and sees Bucky, face lighting up as he jogs over.

"Barnes! Holy hell is it good to see you." He claps him on the shoulder, studying him. "I can't believe you're alive."

"Neither can I," Bucky admits, relaxing slightly. He feels Steve come up next to him and turns, pulling himself together and taking charge. He's a Sergeant, goddamnit. This is his job. "We need to get out of here."

Steve nods. "Yeah. We put as many injured as we could in the truck and more in the tank. I know the way back. The base is in Italy."

"Alright, Captain," Dum Dum says, and Bucky thinks _what?_  "Lead the way."

***

"So," Steve says as they head out, falling into formation, "I never got your names."

"Sergeant Timothy Dugan," Dum Dum says, "But everyone calls me Dum Dum."

Steve nods, head turned to looks at the rest.

"Private Gabe Jones."

"Major James Montgomery Falsworth, British Armed Forces. Everyone calls me Monty."

"Private Jim Morita."

"Jacques Dernier, French resistance."

"Steve Rogers," Steve replies. "Captain America."

Dum Dum snorts. "Yeah, we got that. Didn't know you actually fought. Who sent you? And where the hell is backup?"

Steve winces. "Uh, I kinda came alone. Against orders."

Bucky rolls his eyes next to Steve. "Jesus Christ, pal. How the hell did you get here?"

"A plane. Howard Stark gave me a ride."

Bucky blinks. "Stark?  _That_ Stark?"

Steve nods. "Yeah."

"Wow." Bucky remembers the flying car, being so excited about the technology. It seems a world away now.

They pass the time by talking, Steve catching Bucky up on everything that had happened to him and the men getting to know each other as Bucky focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and seethes with quiet anger and fear.

"I told you not to do anything stupid until I got back," Bucky gripes bitterly. "But did you listen? No."

Steve bumps an arm against his. "Sorry, Buck. But I had to. You know me."

Bucky sighs. "Unfortunately. You're gonna be the death of me, Rogers."

***

They call a halt as darkness falls, spreading out in the woods as the most able men take watch and the injured are carefully laid out. Bucky sits against a tree, the other men starting a fire in the center and some venturing off to see if they can scrounge up any food from the supplies. Bucky just sits there, feeling exhausted and unsettled, something feeling wrong though he can't quite put his finger on it. Everything still hurts distantly and he is tired and weak but he knows he is moving too well for being beaten and experimented on, has too much strength and stamina for being imprisoned for weeks. His teeth ache with an insistent throb and something claws at his insides, a hunger that feels strange and unnatural and makes him swallow convulsively.

Steve sits down next to him, pressing their shoulders together. The warmth leeches through Bucky's shirt and everything seems to sharpen for a moment, the smell of Steve heady and intoxicating and a strange thumping in his ears.

"You okay, Buck?" Steve questions softly.

Bucky nods vaguely, swallowing as the strange hunger claws at him again. "Fine."

The men return, sitting around the fire and passing out tins of food as firelight plays across their faces. Bucky accepts a tin but only plays with the metal, feeling no desire to eat and a faint nausea as the rest of them start to eat, the smell of food doing nothing for his hunger.

"Hey Barnes, I noticed your face looks better," Dum Dum says. "I thought those guards got you good."

Bucky shrugs, feeling uncomfortable. He knows his face has healed faster than it should. "It wasn't that bad."

Steve frowns. "What happened?"

"We tried to take out this Colonel. Barnes took the fall, they beat him up and then took him away and that's the last we saw of him till now." Dum Dum is squinting at him critically and Bucky wishes the fire would go out to hide his face. "What the hell was that place, anyway? No one else ever came back."

Bucky just shrugs again. Steve watches him with worried eyes.

"It was Zola's lab," Steve says carefully, eyes still on him. 

"Zola? Isn't that Hydra's mad scientist?" Morita questions.

Dum Dum nods. "Yeah. Word is he created those blue weapons. What was he doing in the lab? And with prisoners...." He trails off, expression clearing in realization. "Experiments. He was experimenting on prisoners, wasn't he?" He's looking straight at Bucky.

Bucky swallows. "Yeah."

There's a moment of silence.

"How long were you there?" Steve finally asks, voice tinged with apprehension.

Bucky shrugs. "Dunno."

"A few days," Dum Dum says warily. "Did he do anything to you?"

Bucky swallows again, convulsively. "Don't think it did anything. I'm fine."  _That's a lie,_ a voice tells him.

Steve notices the unopened tin in his hands and Bucky sees him frown out of the corner of his eye. "Buck, you should eat."

Bucky shakes his head. "Not hungry."

Steve's frown deepens. "When was the last time you ate?" It's strange, the tables being turned, Steve worrying about Bucky instead of Bucky worrying about Steve. It's not right, and Bucky just wishes everything could go back to normal, that they could be back in Brooklyn.

"I dunno. I'm fine."

"Bucky, you need to eat," Steve presses. "Come on, you're always forcing me to. It's time for me to repay the favor, pal."

Bucky reluctantly peels open the tin, knowing Steve won't let this go. He eats mechanically, not tasting the food and forcing it down as nausea churns in his gut. Finally he finishes it, setting the tin down.

"There, happy?"

"No," Steve returns. He keeps studying Bucky, eyes flitting over his face as he frowns. "You're pale." His hand comes up to feel Bucky's forehead and a rush of scent washes over Bucky, his mouth watering and hunger clawing and Steve's wrist is so close, right in front of his face, all he would have to do is tilt his head up-

"-and you're too cold," Steve says, hand retreating as Bucky blinks back to reality. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, Steve," Bucky snaps, leaning his head back against the tree and closing his eyes. "Let a guy sleep."

"He's right, we should all get some rest," Gabe interjects, and Bucky thanks him silently. He feels Steve shift against him and hears the other men settle down, the snap and crackle of the fire the only sounds in the quiet darkness. Bucky falls asleep quickly, exhaustion pulling at him.

***

He wakes to someone shaking him. He cracks open his eyes and Steve's face appears in his vision, helmet on again and leather jacket ripped, the star of his uniform just peeking out from his chest.

"Hey, we're heading out."

Bucky blinks, body feeling slightly better after sleeping but the hunger even worse, everything seeming too sharp and loud and teeth aching unrelentingly. Steve helps him to his feet, hand warm in Bucky's and sending strange sensations through him. Bucky swallows, schooling his thoughts. Leaving, right. He follows Steve, falling at his left side in front of the other men as they start off again down the dirt road, the strap of the stolen gun cutting into his shoulder as he walks. This time the walk is fairly quiet, everyone exhausted and bearing various injuries. When they finally reach the base there is cheering, all for Steve, and Bucky feels a surge of jealousy and something else as he realizes Steve doesn't need him anymore, that he is the hero now and Bucky is nothing, no one. He sees the dark-haired woman step close to Steve and give him a sultry look and the jealousy boils over.

"Hey! Let's hear it for Captain America!" he shouts, and he gives Steve a small smile but as soon as he looks away Bucky's face falls, coldness creeping over his heart. Steve is bright and beautiful and heroic and doesn't need Bucky anymore, Bucky who is pretty sure Zola did something to him and thinks that although Steve rescued him, it was too late. As Steve rises, Bucky falls, and he doesn't want to know what will happen when he hits the ground.

***

"Buck, you should go to medical."

Bucky scowls. "I'm fine."

Steve's face goes stubborn and Bucky knows he won't win this fight. "Bucky, come on. I won't stop until you do."

Bucky sighs. "Fine." He gets into line with the rest of the injured soldiers, far back to let the more serious go first. Steve is bombarded and quickly whisked away, making the rounds of the base to shake people's hands and debrief with the Colonel. The line dwindles and finally it is Bucky's turn, swallowing nervously as he steps into the tent. There are cots lining the ground, men lying on them with bloody bandages and hobbling along supported by nurses, a small station set up at the front for intake. His head pounds and he swallows convulsively against the strange hunger as the scent of blood hits his nose, sharp and metallic. A nurse steps up, clipboard in hand and expression detached and clinical.

"Name?"

"Sergeant James Barnes."

She scribbles and then points to the chair sitting in the intake station. Bucky sits, stomach twisting with nerves and still fighting the hunger that makes everything else fade away. 

"What's injured?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I'm not-S-Captain Rogers made me come. I was...experimented on."

The nurse's expression clears. "Oh. What was done to you?"

Bucky shrugs. "I dunno. Just injected me with something. I swear I'm fine."

"Do you notice anything different?"

"No," he says, making his voice even and maintaining eye contact so as not to give away the blatant lie.

"Hmm." The nurse writes down something on the clipboard. "Any pain?"

He hesitates. "No."

The nurse raises an eyebrow. "Want to try that again?"

"Sorry, ma'm." He swallows. "Everything is just...sore. I got beat up, so that must be it."

She takes out a stethoscope. "Okay, I'm just going to listen to your heart." She presses the stethoscope to his chest, leaning close as Bucky feels the strange sensation, the hunger wash over him again and his mouth waters, vision tunneling to the soft skin of her neck where he can see her pulse fluttering, an echo of it in Bucky's ears, rushing, drowning everything else out and all he would have to do is lean forward, smell the skin of her neck-

"-kay, sounds good. Your pulse is very slow but that's a good thing." The nurse draws back and Bucky reels in his thoughts as the hunger fades, horrified and ashamed.  _What the hell is wrong with him?_

"It looks like you have some bleeding from your ears, I'm going to check those," the nurse continues, unaware of Bucky's internal turmoil. She takes the otoscope, peering in his ear as Bucky sits still and shoves down the hunger that snarls inside him like a rabid animal. Finally she moves to the other one before taking a light and shining it into his eyes.

"Everything seems normal although your pupils are a little dilated," she notes, writing on her clipboard. She frowns and extends a hand, feeling Bucky's forehead as his head swirls and pounds with hunger again before taking out a thermometer and slipping it under his tongue. After five minutes she takes it out, frowning down at it. "It says your temperature is 95 degrees Fahrenheit. That's....very low. Do you feel cold?"

He shakes his head. "No."

She frowns again. "Okay, well everything else seems fairly normal and you don't seem to be in danger of dying so you can go. I think you just need some rest and food. I would examine you more but unfortunately we have many seriously injured men who need urgent attention. I'm sure you understand."

He nods, feeling relieved. "Yes ma'm. Thank you." He gets up, exiting the tent and breathing a sigh of relief as fresh air greets him, the hunger quieting somewhat. There is an idea, growing in the back of his mind, but he squashes it down forcefully and ignores it, unable to even contemplate it. He wanders around until he finds the group of men, all standing clustered together since they seem to have bonded through this whole thing. They turn at his arrival, faces relieved.

"You cleared?" Dum Dum asks. 

Bucky nods. "All good. What's the word?"

"There's too many people to stay here. Most everyone's being shipped up to London within the hour, including the Colonel and the rest. They're loading the trucks now."

Bucky nods again tiredly. "Alright. Let's go."

***

They're all crammed into the back of a truck, legs drawn up slightly so as not to kick each other as they lean back against the sides. Steve is pressed to Bucky's right shoulder, Dum Dum on his left, and the strange hunger has only increased over the long journey, the warmth of Steve's arm against his like a brand. It's been hours already, and night has fallen, but still they drive onwards. It's about a fifteen-hour journey to London from the base in Italy, driving to the edge of France where they will then take a boat across the channel and drive again until they hit London. All of them are exhausted and dirty and hungry, though Bucky's hunger is not for food, the provisions from the base barely enough to give everyone a meagre portion and ensure they don't starve before they reach London, where there will be rooms and showers and hot food waiting for them. Bucky thinks he would kill for a shower right now. It's been weeks since he's had one, and he's sure he smells just as bad as all the others, dried sweat sticking to his skin uncomfortably and his hair messy and damp. 

The truck hits a bump, jostling them, Steve knocking into Bucky as his heady scent washes over him. Bucky pushes away the strange fact that he can  _smell_ Steve, head too muddled to ponder it deeply as he unconsciously leans towards Steve like a flower towards the sun. He is tired, so tired, and he feels his head drooping as sleep threatens to overtake him. The truck rumbles under him, the only sound in the quiet of the night and he feels Steve's hand gently grasp his, unseen in the darkness inside the truck. Bucky laces their fingers, Steve's hand hot under his, thinking he hears the swoosh of his pulse in his ears but dismisses it as his imagination. He tilts his head and rests it on Steve's shoulder, swallowing down the hunger that rises and allowing sleep to take him at last.

***

He wakes when the truck stops, light steaming in through the slats and Dernier, Morita, Falsworth, and Gabe visible across from him. Bucky blinks, raising his head off of Steve's shoulder. 

"We're here," Steve says, as the guys begin to clamber out of the truck, groaning and stretching. Bucky climbs out after them, staggering as black spots swim in his vision. He hears Steve jump down behind him and a warm hand steadies him.

"You alright? You just slept for almost twelve hours."

He nods, vision clearing. "Fine."

Steve gives him a dubious look as he passes but doesn't comment, all of them making their way to the boat waiting for them as the rest of the men file off of the other trucks. The boat is crowded, all of them standing squished like sardines on the ferry-like deck. Bucky tries to breathe through his mouth as a heady scent makes hunger claw at his insides and his mouth water, head going fuzzy and light like he's had too much alcohol but almost clearer at the same time, every sense sharpening and discordant thumping and rushing in his ears. Steve is pressed against him and he smells different than all the other men, something intoxicating that makes Bucky want to sink his teeth into his neck-

He shakes himself, taking shallow breaths through his mouth.  _Focus, Barnes._ The idea in the back of his mind festers, taking root.

***

By the time they disembark on the opposite shore and load into waiting vehicles Bucky is almost shaking with the effort of keeping the hunger shoved down, something desperate clawing at him that demands to be heard. He takes a deep breath as the crowd disperses, relishing the clean air. Then he and Steve and the rest of the rag-tag group they've formed pile into a waiting truck, this one at least made for people with benches on the sides. As it starts off Bucky leans his head back against the wall, feeling worse than he thinks he's ever felt in his life. Every cell in his body screams with hunger, and he feels like he might pass out or throw up at any moment, head pounding and fuzzy and teeth pulsing with pain, a strange coldness everywhere and every sense highly attuned to the bodies around him, Steve like a beacon that calls to him and makes him want to taste the warm blood running through his veins, have it drip down his chin as he sinks his teeth into Steve's flesh-

He shudders slightly, closing his eyes as he wills the images away.

"Barnes, you okay?" Dum Dum's voice questions.

Bucky doesn't bother opening his eyes. "Fine," he rasps, but it sounds unconvincing even to him.

A warm hand finds his forehead and Bucky flinches, hunger spiking through him at the life pulsing so close to his mouth. He opens his eyes to see Steve looking horrified.

"Jesus Christ! Bucky, you're freezing!" Steve exclaims. "You're like ice!"

Bucky bats his hand away. "I'm fine. You're just warm. Must be the serum."

"Oh." Steve looks considering. "Maybe. Someone else feel his forehead then."

Dum Dum leans over, resting the back of his hand against Bucky's forehead as Bucky scowls and struggles to maintain his composure, breathing through his mouth. Dum Dum blinks and yanks his hand away, looking surprised. 

"Uh, yeah, Barnes, you're freezing. Holy hell. It's like sticking my hand in the ice box."

Steve struggles out of his torn jacket, shoving it at Bucky. "Here, take this."

Bucky sighs but tugs the jacket on over his green sweater, knowing it won't do much. The coldness is inside him, as if all the life has been sucked out of his body leaving nothing but an empty, clawing hunger. As if he is dead already.

All the men are now watching him with worried expressions, shooting glances at each other.

"What did medical say?" Steve asks. "You said they cleared you."

"They did. I'm fine," Bucky repeats.

Steve raises an eyebrow. "What was your temperature?"

Bucky swallows. "Ninety-five," he mumbles.

"Ninety-five? Pal, I've had my temperature taken more than anyone, and I know for damn sure that's too low. How the hell did they clear you?"

Bucky shrugs. "Said I was fine. I'm not dying." But he's not even sure about that now.

"We're taking you to a real doctor when we get to London," Steve says firmly. "You look awful, Buck."

"Gee, thanks."

"He's right," Gabe says hesitantly. "You kinda look like you're going to keel over."

Bucky thunks his head back against the wall. "Fine, I'll go to a doctor, but I'm fine. I'm just tired is all."

The men shoot him dubious looks but stay silent, and the truck rumbles on as Bucky closes his eyes again and drifts.

***

When they finally pull into London it's chaos, men everywhere and orders being barked out. There's limited rooms in the inns so they have to cram as many people in as possible, Steve volunteering to stay with Bucky but no one pressing extra people on them because of Steve's newfound status. Clothes are handed out and directions given, and Bucky trudges after Steve as they make their way to their room, one of the nicest and most secluded ones. Perks of being Captain America, Bucky supposes. They get first dibs on the shower and Bucky stands gratefully under the spray, letting it wash away weeks of imprisonment and torture and make him feel some semblance of human again. He dresses in new borrowed pants and a shirt, shaving and running a hand through his damp hair until it lies flat. Then he returns to their room, the shower having done nothing for the hunger and fatigue that plagues him, meeting Steve to head down and get some food. The bars and restaurants are all crowded but by virtue of Steve's status they manage to squeeze in and grab some food, Bucky forcing it down but feeling no relief from the clawing in his stomach. Finally they escape back to their room, exhausted and in Bucky's case, near his breaking point. The hunger has risen to an almost unbearable pitch, his head spinning and body weak and cold, the tips of his fingers turning blue and hands shaking. Steve hustles them into their room, watching Bucky with worried eyes as he closes the door.

"God, Buck, your lips are turning blue. Come here." He strips to his underwear and climbs into bed, beckoning for Bucky to join him under the covers. Bucky reluctantly strips as well and slides in, immediately enveloped in Steve's warmth. They used to do this back in Brooklyn, but then it was Bucky warming up Steve as Steve coughed and shook from whatever sickness he had at the time. Now the roles are reversed and Bucky doesn't know what to do with this new body of Steve's, huge and muscular and radiating heat like an oven. But before he can contemplate it Steve's arms wrap around him and press his face into his chest and everything dies away except for the blood pulsing through Steve's veins under him, neck exposed and pulse fluttering, a rushing in Bucky's ears as he moves, seeking out the heat as he mouths over Steve's neck hungrily, opening his mouth to sink his teeth into the vein-

"-ucky, what are you doing?" 

Bucky yanks back, throwing himself across the bed and falling to the floor, gasping. He scrambles to his feet to see Steve sitting up in bed, hand to his neck where two small punctures barely break the surface of the skin. 

"Bucky?" Steve's voice is soft. "Bucky, what's wrong?"

Bucky shakes his head, stumbling backwards until his back hits the wall, body trembling and breaths fast and labored. Steve gets out of bed, coming closer.

"No, don't come near me!" Bucky chokes out. Steve ignores him, stepping up until he's in front of Bucky and reaching out to place careful hands on his face as he studies him.

"Buck, what is it?"

Bucky can't answer, head tilting towards Steve's wrist as the hunger takes over again, nosing at the pulse point and opening his mouth to bite down-

Steve wrenches his hand away and Bucky slams his head back against the wall, nails biting into his palms with the effort to restrain himself.

"Sorry," he chokes out. "I'm sorry. You should-you should get away from me. Please, Steve. I can't-I can't-I don't want to hurt you-"

"Oh," Steve breathes. "Oh my god. You-you're...." Then he is stepping closer instead of back and  _no, Steve, you idiot, what are you doing-_ "Well, after Schmidt I think I can believe anything." His hands come up to Bucky's shoulders. "Bucky, look at me."

Bucky looks up, tears spilling from his eyes. Steve is staring back with determination in his eyes tempered by uncharacteristic softness and vulnerability.

"You won't hurt me," Steve says firmly. "I don't even think you can, now. Do whatever you need to."

Bucky shakes his head. "No, no, Steve, I can't let you do this. What if I-what if I don't  _stop-"_

Steve's hands tighten on his shoulders. "Then I'll make you. I'm pretty strong now. Bucky, you're killing yourself. Let me do this for you. Then we'll figure everything else out, alright?"

Bucky wants to protest but he is so  _hungry_ and everything is swirling and Steve is so close, too close and he nods and Steve pulls him closer, into a hug as Bucky's mouth finds his neck again and he sinks his teeth- _fangs-_ in, warm wetness spilling into his mouth and making every cell light up as he presses closer and drinks greedily, warmth flowing through him and erasing the coldness. Steve makes a small sound, hands clenching around Bucky's sides and body relaxing. Bucky drinks until his mind clears enough to push away, licking the blood off his lips and feeling sated and warm and sleepy, the clawing hunger gone and replaced by pure bliss. Steve is watching him warily, hand coming up to press against the wound on his neck, only a small trickle of blood flowing from it.

"Better?"

Bucky nods heavily. "Are you okay?"

Steve nods. "Yeah, I'm fine. Not even lightheaded." He assesses Bucky critically. "You look better. More color. I bet your temperature is up, too. Looks like that did the trick."

A flood of gratefulness and love washes through Bucky. Trust Steve to be so calm and logical about this. Honestly. "C'mere," he says thickly, moving forward to draw Steve into a real hug this time, head tucked into his shoulder but no desire to bite down. Steve's arms cautiously wind around him, a sigh escaping.

"God, I thought I lost you, Buck," Steve breathes. "I was ready to walk to Austria to find you. And I don't care if you're a...vampire, or whatever. You're still Bucky. You're still mine."

Bucky pulls back just enough to press his lips to Steve's in a chaste kiss, mindful of the blood in his mouth. "I'm scared, Steve," he admits, staring into blue eyes that haven't changed even though everything else has. "I don't know what's happening to me."

Steve's eyes tighten. "We'll figure it out. I promise." He pulls them over to the bed, laying them down and tucking Bucky's head under his chin. He smells delicious and he is warm with blood but it isn't overwhelming and Bucky simply enjoys it, pressing his face into the hollow of Steve's throat and inhaling. 

"You smell good," he murmurs.

Steve chuckles under him, hands moving up and down his back. "Thanks, I think. You did just bite me, so I guess I taste good too."

Bucky can't help the small laugh that escapes. "That too." He traces a hand over Steve's side, feeling the ridges of muscle. "You look so...different. I'm not used to it."

"Is it...bad different?"

Bucky shakes his head slightly against Steve. "No, I mean, you're not dying anymore, right? So that's good. You can breathe normally, see normally, hear normally, your heart works, you won't get sick anymore...I can't be disappointed about that even if I do miss your old body a little. I-" He swallows. "I love you in whatever body you're in, Steve. I love  _you._ I loved you when you were small and scrawny and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet and I love you now when you look like some Greek statue or something." They both chuckle slightly before quieting. "You're mine, Steve Rogers," Bucky whispers. "I'm with you till the end of the line."

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky wakes slowly, a warm weight under him. He feels...different, somehow. Certainly better than the day before. His head is clear and nothing hurts, the coldness gone and hunger barely there and energy filling his body. It seems like whatever that was last night was what he needed, a thought which scares him. He doesn't know anything about vampires except the old wives' tales, or so he thought they were, and he doesn't know how much of them is true. He's been in sunlight fine, but maybe that was because he hadn't fed yet? Isn't he supposed to be dead? Is he immortal? How often will he have to feed? Is he-is he a monster?

He pushes the last thought away, retracting his limbs from around Steve so he can cross his arms on Steve's chest, looking down at him. He can still smell him, the unique scent that no one else has, something golden and healthy about it, and if he concentrates he can hear the slow, steady thumping of Steve's heart, so different from the uneven flutter he used to have. His skin is nothing but miles of toned muscle, utterly unrecognizable, but his face is the same. His mouth is still pink and soft, parted in sleep, and his golden eyelashes flutter against his skin. Dark blonde hair is ruffled and a few strands fall over is forehead, catching the faint light filtering through the curtains. He looks like an angel, Bucky thinks. That makes Bucky a demon, a creature of darkness to Steve's light. His gaze turns to Steve's neck where the puncture wounds are already almost healed, only faint red spots where they were. He had done that. He had sunk his teeth into Steve's neck and drank his blood, had hurt Steve just to help himself. It's selfish, and wrong. Bucky should never hurt Steve.

Steve grunts, walking. His eyes open and land on Bucky, soft with sleep.

"Hey Buck."

"Hey," Bucky replies. 

"How are you feeling?"

Bucky frowns. "Good. Great, actually. I'm sorry."

Steve shakes his head slightly. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"I hurt you."

Steve rolls his eyes. "It didn't even hurt. And I bet it's already healed. Besides, I told you to. What were you gonna do, starve?"

Bucky scowls. "You're a stupid punk. Letting me bite your neck and drink your blood like a goddamn vampire. I could've killed you."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You are a vampire, Buck. And I highly doubt that. One, you'd never do that. Two, I wouldn't let you. Three, I'm pretty sure you can't even kill me. My body regenerates so fast any blood you took is probably replaced by now. I'm the perfect person for you to feed on."

Bucky lets his head fall onto his arms. "God, this is so weird. Talking about vampires and shit like it's normal."

He feels Steve chuckle under him. "Yeah, maybe it hasn't sunk in yet. I dunno, I guess after being turned into a super-soldier and then seeing Schmidt peel his own face off nothing can surprise me anymore. We do need to talk, though."

Bucky raises his head again. "Yeah."

"Are you still...hungry?"

Bucky shakes his head. "No. I mean, I could, but it's not...immediate. I can deal. I'm not gonna try and bite you or anything."

"I guess just...let me know when you are? I don't know how often you'll need to...feed."

Bucky shrugs. "Me either, pal. I'm flying blind here."

Steve studies him. "You don't really...look any different. Your face is healed, though. Maybe a tinge paler. And you're warmer than yesterday, though still a little cool." He cocks his head. "Maybe it's like...you run out of blood? Like when I used to be anemic. Your lips were blue and you were cold, but then you drank blood and you warmed right up and now your face is healed. I had to keep eating raw liver, maybe you just need to keep eating blood. You're permanently anemic, of a sort."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "When did you become the smart one?" 

"Hey, I've always been smart."

"Sure, pal." He considers. "But yeah, that makes sense. I felt like I was dying."

"I'm sorry. I wish you'd told me earlier."

"What the hell would I have said? Hey Stevie, I think I might be turning into a vampire, want to open a vein? I thought I was losing my mind."

"It is a little crazy," Steve admits. "But when you tried to take a bite out of my wrist and I saw the fangs I was pretty convinced."

Bucky blinks. "Wait, fangs?" He brings a hand to his mouth, running along his teeth. They feel sharper and the canines slightly pointed, but not too much. He looks back at Steve worriedly. "Are they still there? Can you see them?"

Steve raises a hand, Bucky opening his mouth as Steve pulls his lip up. "No, they're a little sharp but nothing like last night. Most people probably wouldn't notice. You must have others that come down when you feed." He lets go but keeps his hand there, thumb tracing Bucky's lip. Bucky presses a kiss to his thumb before grabbing Steve's hand with his own, leaning down to kiss Steve on the mouth. He's careful, wary of his teeth, but Steve presses upwards harder and Bucky crumbles, opening his mouth to let Steve in. The kiss turns heavy and Bucky moves to straddle Steve's waist, the feel of Steve's new body foreign under him. Suddenly there's a knock on the door and they both freeze, breathing heavily. 

"Captain Rogers? Sergeant Barnes?" A voice questions. 

Bucky and Steve slide out of bed quietly, Steve throwing on pants and a shirt and Bucky slipping under the covers, the bed out of view of the door, as Steve jogs to the door and opens it a crack, blocking it with his body. He takes something and after a few exchanged words murmurs thanks, shutting the door again as Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve turns, holding up two piles of fabric.

"Uniforms. I have to report to HQ in an hour. Apparently the Army wants to give me a medal, too, but I'm definitely not going back to the States. You have a meeting with Affairs."

Bucky nods. "What are you gonna do after this?"

Steve shrugs. "Go after Hydra if I can. After what they did to you..."

"I know." Bucky swallows. "You got a plan?"

"I got a look at the map with bases. Figure that'll help."

"Yeah. I know the one. They were making us work on something in that factory, but they shipped all the parts to a facility that wasn't on that map."

"I'll let them know." Steve hesitates. "I'll need a team."

Bucky smirks. "I know just the guys. They're all idiots, they'd agree to follow you."

"The guys we rode with? They seem like a good bunch."

"They are. Dum Dum and Gabe were in my unit, great guys though never tell them I said that. Gabe speaks some German and French, so that comes in handy. He's communications. Dum Dum is one tough son of a bitch. Got to know some of the others in that factory and they're a little crazy but in a good way. You'd be lucky to have them on your team."

Steve nods. "I'll ask them tonight if I get the all clear." He hands Bucky his uniform and starts putting on his own. "I'm gonna grab some food and then head over." He stops suddenly, fingers pausing on the buttons of his shirt. " _Can_ you eat?"

"I dunno." Bucky shrugs. "I'm not hungry, but I ate yesterday and it was fine. I think I can, but I don't need to."

"I guess we'll figure it out eventually. Come on, let's go." Bucky finishes buttoning his shirt and follows him out the door. Bucky squints in the sunlight, shielding his eyes, but he doesn't burn so he figures that part of vampire lore is a myth. They duck into a line to get food, which Bucky eats and enjoys but doesn't do anything for him, and then make their way to HQ. They split off, Bucky going towards the affairs office while Steve goes down into the strategy room. Bucky ducks into the office, with rows of desks and files and secretaries writing and calling. A woman waves him over, pointing to a seat behind a desk.

"Sergeant Barnes?"

"Yes ma'm."

"Alright, we're going to have to fix your file. You were declared killed in action and condolences were sent to your family. Our apologies for the mistake. You were one of the men captured at Azzano, correct?"

"Yes ma'm."

"And it says here you were subject to experimentation and torture?"

He swallows. "Yes." His voice is hoarse.

Her eyes are kind as she leans forward, blonde hair curling around her face. "You're eligible for an honorable discharge, Sergeant Barnes, should you choose to take it. Your service has been exemplary, and you've been through quite an ordeal. You could go home to your family."

He takes a deep breath, knowing what he has to do. If Steve was back home he would take the discharge in a heartbeat, would go home and hug his ma and Becca and kiss Steve in their tiny apartment and not think about the war. But Steve is here, and where he goes Bucky follows. "No," he says. He takes another breath. "No, I'd like to decline, ma'm."

She studies him briefly before nodding, writing something in his file. "Alright, you're free to go. You'll get new orders shortly. If you wish to send a letter to your family letting them know you're alive the post office is right across the street. Any questions?"

He shakes his head. "No ma'm. Thank you."

She smiles slightly. "Good luck, Sergeant Barnes."

***

Bucky sits at the small desk in he and Steve's room, parchment in front of him and pen in hand. He grips in tightly before lowering it to the paper and beginning to write.

_Nov. 20, 1943_

_Becca,_

_I'm alive. I know they told you I wasn't, but it was a mistake. I was captured, but Steve rescued me and the others a couple days ago. It's a long story, but Steve is Captain America. I could barely believe it. You should see him, Becs, he's as tall as me now! No more sickness or asthma. I'm sure you'll hear about the rescue in the papers. I think we're gonna go after Hydra as soon as Steve gets the all-clear. They offered me an honorable discharge, but I declined. I'm sorry, Becs, you know I gotta make sure Steve is safe. I miss you. I'm writing Ma and Pa too, but this letter is just for you. I can't believe it's been months since I saw you last; I don't think we've ever been apart that long. I don't know how much longer it'll be but I promise I'll come home to you and give you a big hug just like always. Tell me everything that's going on back home. How's Lucy? Is she meowing like crazy now that I'm gone? How's old Mrs. Abelson? Did she find someone else to help her with the groceries? How is Ma, really? I miss you guys so much. Tell Ma not to worry about me, I'll be fine. ~~Zola did something to me~~ I'm doing alright. Everything's a little strange now but I can't talk about it here. I'll tell you all about it when I get home. Write back quickly, it's been too long since I've heard from you. _

_Love,_

_Bucky_

He sets down the pen, reading it over quickly. Satisfied, he folds it and sets it aside, writing the next one.

_Nov. 20, 1943_

_Ma and Pa,_

_I'm alive. I wrote Becs a letter too so she knows. I was captured but rescued by Steve, who is Captain America now. I'm sure it's in the papers. I'm alright, and I'm going to join Steve in taking down Hydra as soon as they clear the mission. I don't know when I'll be home but it might be a while. I'll miss Thanksgiving and Christmas for sure and you probably won't get this until after Thanksgiving, but I'll make sure to write. I'll be thinking of Ma's cooking the whole time; I think that's the thing I miss most out here. I'm in London right now but I don't know where I'm going next. I'll write you as soon as I know. Hope you're doing well and thinking of you always._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

He scans it, sighing. It seems too short, but he can't write about the imprisonment, or Zola's experiments, or what they turned him into. Even if he wanted to tell them, he can't trust that someone won't read the mail and then the secret would be out. No, he'd rather they all remember him as he was, bright and happy and  _human,_ rather than know about the torture and the creature of nightmare he's turned into, the way he can feel his soul warping as the war drags on. He looks at the letters and all of a sudden all he wants is to go home, to have his Ma hug him tight like he's a little boy again and tell him it's okay, that everything will be alright. He thinks of explosions and gunfire and the corpses of friends and being strapped down and tortured, fire burning through his veins as his screams echoed off the walls-

He takes a shaky breath, forcing the images down. He has to be strong. Steve needs him, and Bucky has always done whatever needed to be done for Steve. So many things he'll never tell him, like running things for the mob so he could afford Steve's medicine, or that one time some guy had paid him more than a week's wages for Bucky to suck him off in an alley...

He takes another breath. It doesn't matter. Steve needs him, so Bucky will be strong. God help him, he'd follow Steve into hell itself.

***

He mails the letters and then explores London and finds some of the other guys, all of them relieved to see him feeling better. He lies and says he went to a doctor, that he just needed some rest and food after everything. They seem to accept it, clapping him on the back and spending the afternoon flirting with various women and trying every pub in town. Evening finds them in one filled with soldiers, the rest of the group of men finding a table as Bucky takes a seat next to Steve at the bar, uniform slightly rumpled and tie discarded.

"You cleared?" he asks.

Steve nods. "Yeah. Told them I was putting together a team. I'm gonna go ask them now."

The bartender slides a drink over to Bucky and he raises it towards Steve. "Good luck."

Steve claps him on the shoulder as he gets up. "Thanks, pal." Bucky watches as he walks over to the table, sitting down as he begins to talk. Bucky nurses his drink alone, feeling nothing even as his glass gets lower and lower. Goddamnit, he can't even get drunk anymore. Finally, as the piano starts playing and the bar fills with raucous singing Steve walks back over, looking satisfied. Bucky had heard the whole conversation, something he probably wouldn't have been able to before.

"See? I told you, they're all idiots," Bucky says.

Steve slides into the stool next to him. "How about you? Ready to follow 'Captain America' into the jaws of death?" Bucky realizes he hasn't even asked him yet, and the subtle undercurrent of hesitation, the derogatory emphasis on 'Captain America' tells him Steve is unsure, a little nervous about people following him because of his status when he doesn't really know what he's doing.

"Hell no," Bucky replies. "That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I'm following him." It's like he told Steve last night, he loves  _Steve,_ not Captain America. For him, nothing has changed. He takes another drink before leaning closer, voice slightly sultry. "But you're keeping the outfit, right?"

Steve gives him a look, eyes flicking down in a way that tells Bucky he understands  _exactly_ what he means. He glances over at the poster behind them, 'tour cancelled' pasted across it. "You know what, it's kinda growin' on me."

Suddenly the singing in the background falters as heeled footsteps approach, Steve and Bucky turning and standing as Agent Carter walks up to them, looking beautiful in a red dress with hair curled impeccably and red lipstick bright and sharp. 

"Captain."

"Agent Carter," Steve responds. 

She stops in front of Steve, sparing only a glance for Bucky.

"Ma'm," he says.

"Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds good." 

Agent Carter turns towards where the guys are singing and drinking. "I see your top squad is prepping for duty."

"You don't like music?" Bucky questions in a low voice.

Agent Carter's eyes don't stray from Steve. "I do, actually. I might, even, when this is all over, go dancing."

"Then what are we waiting for?" 

"The right partner," she replies, still staring at Steve. "0800, Captain." Then she turns and walks away.

"Yes ma'm, I'll be there," Steve calls after her. Bucky shakes his head, feeling jealousy curl in his gut. Steve looks over, catching his expression and face falling. "Buck, it's not like that."

Bucky grimaces. "Sure, pal. Hey, I get it, she's a beautiful woman and smart as hell. I don't blame you." He starts to turn away. 

"Where are you going?"

"Bed, Steve. Sleep. Heard of it?" he calls back, exiting the bar and into the street, feeling the November chill in the air but not bothered by it. He's halfway back to the inn where their room is when he hears running footsteps and smells Steve, a hand falling onto his shoulder and stopping him.

"Buck."

Bucky sighs. "What?"

"Just...come on." Steve pulls him towards the inn, both of them walking in silence until they get to their room, the hallway empty. Steve locks the door behind them, grabbing Bucky and slamming him against the wall as his mouth finds his in a searing kiss. Bucky shoves back, nipping at Steve's lip with sharpened teeth as he pulls them around and slams Steve back into the wall instead. He kisses down Steve's jaw, mouthing at his neck as Steve throws his head back, the scent of Steve intoxicating and blood rushing through the veins under Bucky's mouth, separated only by soft skin. Thankfully the hunger is low enough that he is able to restrain himself, only mouthing and kissing at Steve's neck without biting down. He shoves a leg between Steve's, moving back up to kiss his mouth as Steve grips his sides and rolls his hips slightly against Bucky. Then they are spinning again and Bucky's back meets the wall hard, Steve pressing against him as he covers Bucky's mouth in bruising kisses, both of them gasping for air in between. Steve's hands find Bucky's uniform, unbuttoning it and pulling back slightly to slide it off and toss it somewhere in the corner of the room. Bucky undoes Steve's tie with shaking fingers, tossing his uniform in the same direction as both work their pants down and tug off their shoes. Steve pulls Bucky towards the bed, pinning him down and straddling him as he leans down and kisses Bucky again, the position familiar but strange because Steve is so big now instead of small and light. Their kisses turn languid and finally Steve pulls back, panting as he stares down at Bucky, lips red and swollen and utterly beautiful in the dim light, dog tags glinting on his sculpted chest.

"You're it for me, Bucky Barnes," he breathes. "No one else, I swear."

Bucky looks up at him, desperately wishing that could be true. "You're a fucking punk, you know that?" He rasps. "But I love you. God help me."

Steve smiles, leaning down to connect their lips again. Bucky rolls them, settling between Steve's legs and rolling his hips as their lips meet in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses punctuated by gasps, Steve's warm breath washing over his face and hunger sharpening as Bucky is surrounded by the scent of Steve and the rush of warm blood through his veins. He feels something move in his mouth and runs his tongue over fangs, Steve's pupils dilating into a faint ring of blue as he stares up at Bucky. He brings a hand up to Bucky's face, slipping his thumb into Bucky's mouth to run over his teeth as their bodies grind together slowly, every nerve in Bucky's body lighting up. Bucky closes his eyes, savoring the taste of Steve in his mouth but hunger quiet enough he doesn't fear biting down.

"Look at me," Steve breathes.

Bucky opens his eyes, meeting Steve's. Steve looks wondering as he stares at him, hand moving to cup his cheek. Bucky tilts his head into it, every sense filled with Steve.

"God you're beautiful," Steve whispers reverently.

Bucky reaches up and grabs Steve's hand with his own, lacing their fingers and pressing their entwined hands to the bed as he ducks down to capture Steve's mouth in a careful kiss. He nibbles on his lip gently, hearing an intake of breath from Steve and feeling a small trickle of blood flow into his mouth. He pulls back, licking his lips and looking down worriedly.

"Sorry."

Steve shakes his head, eyes dark. "No, no, it's-" He blushes, the full-body blush that Bucky loves. "I like it. Do you-can you bite my neck? I didn't tell you before but-um, it doesn't hurt. The opposite, really. Must be some vampire power."

Bucky blinks. "Oh. I-yes." He smiles, knowing his fangs are showing, and Steve inhales sharply. "Yes." He kisses Steve again, licking the blood from the small cut on his lip before traveling down his jaw, rolling his hips faster against Steve. Steve makes a small sound, pressing his head back into the pillow and exposing the pale column of his throat as Bucky kisses down it, mouthing over the pulse point and inhaling Steve's rich scent. Their hands squeeze together and both are breathing heavily, heat coiling in Bucky's stomach as he sinks his teeth into Steve's throat, hot blood flooding his mouth as Steve groans not in pain but in pleasure and then they are both coming, every nerve in Bucky's body set aflame with pleasure as he slumps over Steve, finally releasing his neck to lick over the wound and press kisses around it as he feels his fangs retract. Steve's hand finds his head and drags him up to kiss him, uncaring of the blood in Bucky's mouth. When they part Bucky rests his forehead against Steve's before sliding off him and onto his back, mindful of the mess. Steve gets up, coming back with a washcloth and cleaning them up before laying back down as Bucky moves to rest his head on his chest, over his heart, hand resting on Steve's stomach and left leg thrown over Steve's. Steve's arm tightens around him, right hand finding Bucky's left on his stomach and twining them together.

"Wow," he breathes.

Bucky chuckles. "It really didn't hurt?" he questions, craning his head to look at the bite mark. Surprisingly it's already closing over, and Bucky wonders if it's because he licked it.

"No. It really-it really didn't." Steve clears his throat. "Very much the opposite."

Bucky presses a kiss to Steve's chest. "Good." He settles down again, Steve's heart thumping steadily under him, a reassurance that he is alive and well. How often Bucky had listened to Steve's heart back in Brooklyn, sitting with Steve slumped against him and burning with fever, every wheezing breath and unsteady flutter of his heart a sign that he was still alive. Now Bucky doesn't have to worry about sickness taking Steve, but in a war zone he's more unsafe than ever. He falls asleep listening to Steve's heart beat steadily, knowing that whatever lies ahead at least they have this, a moment suspended in time where for just a little while the world can't touch them.

***

Bucky wakes the next morning wrapped around Steve, face pressed into his neck right over where he'd bitten him last night. Pulling back he sees only smooth skin, the punctures having healed over already, but doesn't know whether that's just Steve's healing factor or how he'd licked it last night. He hadn't taken much blood, really only a mouthful, but he feels warm and content with a strange almost tingling feeling, an acute sense of Steve under him. He feels...connected to him, strangely, though he can't explain how he knows, just that there is something inside him that is  _Steve_ and he wonders if it's because he drank his blood. Steve's blood is now in him, a part of him, and he swears he can feel it, an essence of goodness and vitality that warms him from the inside out. Surely drinking super-soldier blood must be better than a normal person, and Bucky wonders if it'll make him stronger as well but has no idea about the science behind his new condition, what is actually going on. What is the blood doing? Where is it going? Why does he have to drink it? How does he have fangs? Are there other vampires out there? Are any of the tales true? The part of him that's always been fascinated by science wishes he could study himself to unlock all the secrets, but the part of him that remembers being strapped down in Zola's lab just wants to ignore it as much as possible.

Bucky sighs, feeling Steve wake up under him but also inside him, an intrinsic knowledge that _Steve is awake_. It's...strange, but no more than anything else that has happened. Bucky brings a hand up to trace patterns over Steve's chest, the metal of his dog tags warm from his skin.

"Hey," he says into Steve's neck, kissing him over his pulse point.

"Hey," Steve replies, voice muzzy with sleep. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." There's a minute of silence and then Bucky moves, propping himself up on Steve's chest so he can see his face. Steve blinks at him sleepily, blonde hair mussed over his forehead and sticking up adorably.

"You gotta meet Stark at eight, right?" Bucky asks.

Steve nods. "Yeah. What time is it now?"

Bucky looks over at the small clock on the nightstand. "Six."

Steve's mouth twitches up into a smirk. "Plenty of time."

Bucky smirks back wickedly. "Oh yeah?"

Steve raises an eyebrow and Bucky feels the twinge of arousal that goes through him. "Yeah." Then Bucky is being flipped, pressed down into the mattress as Steve straddles his waist, grabbing his wrists and pinning them over his head. Bucky struggles slightly but Steve is strong now and holds him with ease, leaning down to take Bucky's mouth in a bruising kiss. Bucky rolls his hips and Steve gasps over him, grip loosening slightly.

"It's on, Rogers," Bucky growls, using strength he didn't know he had to break free of Steve's grip and push him off, climbing on top of him and pinning Steve by his wrists the same way he had. Steve's eyes go dark and he struggles against Bucky's hold but Bucky is able to match his strength, Steve's head dropping back as Bucky dives in to mouth at his throat again. Steve's legs wrap around Bucky and everything else disappears except for them, Steve warm and beautiful under Bucky and every sensation doubled with his newfound awareness of Steve, Bucky losing himself as their panting breaths fill the quiet room, the first rays of sunlight just peeking through the curtains to bathe them in soft golden light as Bucky explores every inch of Steve's new body.

***

"Hmm, maybe blue here, like the outfit, with the star in the center."

"Like this?"

"Yeah, I like that. Make it the outfit, but functional. Shame you can't keep the tights." Bucky smirks.

Steve chuckles. "Nope, definitely not."

Bucky sits cross-legged next to Steve in the bed, watching as Steve sketches uniform ideas in his sketchbook, both of them showered and changed into their uniforms. Steve is due to meet Stark soon and the rest of the men are meeting to start getting ready, choosing uniforms and strategizing for their first mission.

The day passes in a blur, the men choosing uniforms and Steve choosing a circular shield made of a rare metal that's completely vibration absorbent, to Bucky's amazement. He meets Stark, trying to hide his awe at the man he's always admired. Bucky had wanted to be an engineer, before he held that draft letter in his hand and thought  _no, please, God no_  and everything had changed.He'd been going to college, working overtime so that Steve could go to art school, and he'd dragged Steve all the way out to the World Expo just to see Stark's new invention. Shaking his hand is like a dream come true, except it takes place in a nightmare.

Stark gives him an updated sniper rifle he designed himself and catches on to Bucky's enthusiasm for his inventions, launching into rambling, excited explanations as Bucky hangs onto every word. He thinks no one else really listens to Stark, and he admits the man is a bit of a narcissist, but Bucky finds himself liking him anyway. He sees a little of himself in him. Stark also gives Steve a motorcycle of his own invention that makes Bucky swoon, and they figure out a way for the shield to hang on Steve's back. The team in charge of uniforms promises to have them ready the next day, and Bucky watches as Steve paints his shield red, white and blue with the star in the middle, matching his uniform. It's a goddamn target, and Bucky sighs inwardly as he tells Steve exactly how stupid he thinks it is.

"It's supposed to be a target," Steve says. "They shoot at it and not me. I'm telling you, it works."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Hmm. We'll see."

Steve punches him lightly on the shoulder. "Well, I'll have you covering my back, so I don't have to worry."

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

"Not really. I'll figure it out. Besides, I've got you."

"I swear to god, you're gonna be the death of me one day," Bucky groans. "But fine. I am a Sergeant. It's literally in my job description to take care'a everyone."

Steve grins. "And I'm a Captain."

"Yes, we all know," Bucky gripes. "That's a technicality. You don't actually know shit."

Steve scowls. "Yes I do. I went to boot camp. And I rescued everyone from the factory, didn't I?"

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose again, sighing. "God help me."

***

They enter their room gratefully that evening, finally alone. They start tomorrow on their first mission, and the peaceful solitude they've carved out here will be broken. It will be back to war, and death, and bloodshed, and Bucky doesn't know how he'll manage to feed always surrounded by men but he pushes it out of his mind, focusing on enjoying what might be the last moments they have like this. He pulls Steve out of his clothing slowly and explores every inch of his body again, wanting this night to last forever. They trade unhurried kisses as they lay on the bed, bare skin touching and dog tags clinking together between them, the sheets tangled over them. Their fingers interlock as they take each other apart, breaths mingling before Bucky sinks his teeth into Steve's neck again, pushing them both over the edge.

Afterwards they curl up together, Bucky pressed against Steve's back like always except Steve is no longer small and fragile. Bucky presses his nose to the back of Steve's neck, inhaling, left hand interlaced with Steve's over his heart. It beats steadily,  _thump, thump, thump,_ and Bucky falls asleep with it's reassuring echo in his chest, his own heart beating in time to Steve's. 


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky puts on his new custom uniform, coat dark blue and buttoned over the right side of his chest, wool under layer thick enough to withstand the cold that's steadily creeping up even though Bucky barely feels it, and layered with silk and reinforced material on the outside to make it damn near bulletproof. There's a small wing stitched onto the left arm, the SSR insignia they all bear, and his pants are similarly custom, close to a paratroopers', with extra pockets and reinforced material. His pistol is tucked into the shoulder harness against his right side, easy to draw with his left hand, and the pouches on his belt fit all the small items he needs. Steve's in his Captain America uniform, shield catching the sunlight as he swings it over his back and settles on his new motorcycle. The rest of them pile into Army trucks with the unit they're shadowing, setting off towards the channel again.

They ferry across and keep moving, heading for the first Hydra base thirty-five miles west of the Maginot line in France, in a small town called Saverne. It's a large weapons factory and the team takes it by surprise, Steve breaking down the door as the other soldiers surround the base and begin to engage. Bullets fly and blue light fires from weapons but Steve blocks them with his shield, punching Hydra soldiers and using the shield as a battering ram. Bucky watches his back, finger tensed around the trigger of his updated gun as he finds a high spot and starts picking off Hydra soldiers, doing the split-second calculations in his head that got him respected as one of the best marksmen in his unit. He notices that his senses are sharper, too, his vision allowing him to take impossible shots and the sense of Steve thrumming in his chest making him acutely aware of where he is at all times. He watches as Steve goes to smash the shield into a soldier's head but it gets knocked from his grip, Bucky's blood running cold as he lines up the shot frantically and fires, the soldier crumpling to the ground. Steve grabs the edge of his shield from the ground and looks ahead, seeing soldiers coming for him, before throwing it at them as Bucky thinks  _Steve, you idiot, why did you throw away your shield._ But the shield knocks them down and bounces back, Steve running to catch it from midair with a surprised expression on his face.  _Huh,_ Bucky thinks.  _Maybe that thing is useful after all._

There's a sharp whistle from Dernier, their signal, and Bucky immediately scrambles to his feet and takes off, knowing Steve is doing the same without having to look. They burst out of the factory, the team regrouping as they head for cover, soldiers streaming after them. The factory explodes behind them, all of them stopping to take a breath as they grin back at the wreckage, adrenaline pumping through their veins. Steve grins at Bucky with a proud expression, as if saying  _look what I did!_ and Bucky rolls his eyes, straightening up. Steve may be Captain, but as Sergeant and Steve's right-hand Bucky's the one who gets shit done.

"Alright, everybody back to the vehicles. Let's regroup and then clear the town."

They all nod affirmative and start to move, heading back to the vehicles and making sure everyone is accounted for, the injured handed off to the medics waiting in one of the trucks. Then they move through the town, already in ruins from the Hydra occupation, rooting out a few more Hydra soldiers and finding enough vacant homes and buildings to stay in overnight. It feels wrong, infringing on what was someone's home, but it's war. 

Gabe radios London headquarters that the mission was a success and then the team pores over the map, Steve pointing out where the next base is on the border of Austria and Switzerland in the Resia pass in Italy. They chart the best course there and discuss tactics, having to go around neutral Switzerland and back into German-occupied Italy to hit the base. When they're finally done they grab food and retreat to their temporary lodgings, Steve and Bucky sitting on the floor of a run-down house with backs against the wall, windows smashed and inside stripped bare by Hydra. Bucky gives his tin of food to Steve, knowing with Steve's metabolism he needs more and that Bucky doesn't seem to need to eat. 

"Hungry?" Steve asks, not talking about food.

Bucky shakes his head. "No, I'm good. I'll let you know." He reaches over to grab Steve's shield where it leans against the wall, flipping it over in his hands and studying it as Steve eats.

"Good balance," Bucky notes, balancing it up on the tip of a finger. "Light, too. Very aerodynamic. This metal is incredible. The vibration absorption means that it can bounce off of multiple surfaces without losing velocity or kinetic energy." He grips the edge, mimicking the throwing motion that Steve had done earlier. "You think you could get the hang of throwing this thing? It's like the-like the empty pie tins we used to throw back and forth, remember?"

Steve nods. "Yeah. I didn't even think, I just threw it, but it worked."

"You've been thinking about it just as a shield, something to block bullets, but it could also be a weapon. Listen, if you got the calculations right, you could throw it  and have it come back to you." Bucky digs in his pocket, pulling out the small notepad and pencil he uses to make calculations for shots. He starts scribbling, calculating the force needed and exact angle of the throw to make it come back in a variety of ways. Steve scoots closer to see, nodding as Bucky mutters and flips another page. When Bucky's done he passes the notepad to Steve, shrugging as he twirls his pencil between his fingers.

"I dunno, just a start. But with practice you could definitely do it."

Steve looks awed. "This is incredible, Buck. You're brilliant. And yeah, I used to be shit at math but I think the serum did...something. I could just tell exactly where the shield would go, and I could definitely do these calculations in my head now."

Bucky grins. "But somehow the serum still couldn't fix your stupid." He ruffles Steve's hair, earning an elbow to the ribs.

"Jerk."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Punk. But seriously, you should practice sometime. You don't want to throw this thing and miscalculate cause then you're shit outta luck if it doesn't come back to you. And I can't always be watchin' your back every second."

 Steve nods, passing the notepad back to Bucky, who tucks it into his pocket. "Tomorrow. We'll practice on trees. For now we should get some sleep." He gets up, retrieving his pack and laying down, shoving it under his head as a pillow. Bucky does the same, side pressed to Steve as they stare up at the cracked ceiling. Steve's hand finds his, twining their fingers together, mindful of the people in the next room. Bucky squeezes Steve's hand and inhales his scent, drifting off with the faint thump of Steve's heartbeat in his ears.

***

The base in the Resia pass is an old warehouse in the middle of nowhere that's been converted into a base, complete with Hydra soldiers with blue guns and crates of munitions. They burst through the door in formation as the other soldiers surround the base, firing ahead with their updated guns. Steve fights off soldiers, flinging the shield perfectly and having it come back to him as Bucky smiles with pride, dropping Hydra soldiers through the scope of his rifle. They clear the base and then there's a whistle and the rest of the tactical team runs out as Steve plants explosives before revving his motorcycle and crashing through the window as the building explodes, Bucky's heart in his throat. They regroup by the vehicles, driving until night falls and they make camp, the mountains around them dusted with snow and everyone huddling around the fires they build, shivering in the chilly air.

Bucky doesn't really feel the cold and Steve runs hot but the fire feels good and they sit around it with the other men, swapping tales and heating stew over the flames. Bucky eats to keep up appearances, the hot stew warming him from the inside out and reminding him of home. He takes out his favorite knife and plays with it as they talk, firelight glinting off the blade.

"So, I was in this bar in Boston," Dum Dum is saying, "and someone bumps me an' I spill my drink all over this pretty little dame, all fine and soft-looking, and I'm like shit, but of course I don't say that, I go, 'my apologies, ma'm, I didn't see you there,' an' you know what she did?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "What?"

"She punched me square in the face."

They burst out laughing, Bucky's shoulder knocking into Steve as he shakes his head in mirth. 

"She punched you in the face?" Morita gasps out.

"Yup." Dum Dum takes a drink. "An' then I married her."

"You married the woman who punched you in the face?" Falsworth questions incredulously.

"Yup. She's a spitfire, that one. Love'a my life. Eight years this past May."

Bucky shoots a small glance over at Steve, watching the firelight play over his face.  _Love of my life._ Steve is, he thinks. He's been the only one Bucky has ever wanted since he was six years old and pulling bullies off this tiny kid, all knobbly knees and blonde hair and blue eyes sparking with determination. Since he stuck out his hand and said  _Bucky Barnes_ and a tiny, cold hand squeezed his firmly and said  _Steve Rogers._ Bucky has loved Steve his entire life, since before he even knew what love was, only knowing deep in his soul that Steve was his and that he would burn the world down to protect him. He thinks the word is carved into his soul,  _protect,_ the defining current of Bucky's life. Steve is  _fight,_ but Bucky is  _protect._ Steve is bright, vivid anger, righteousness, fiery determination to rival the sun and Bucky is cold, quiet rage, protectiveness, possessiveness, a soft heart and a hatred of violence but willing to do anything to protect the ones he loves. He would do  _anything_ for Steve.

"What about you, Barnes?" Morita questions. "You got a sweetheart back home?"

Bucky forces a laugh, not letting his eyes stray to Steve. "Nah." He forces his facade, the skirt-chasing smirk, onto his face. "Don't wanna be pinned down just yet."

The men laugh and raise their cups. "I hear you," Morita says. "Here's to us lone wolves."

Bucky raises his cup, smile fixed in place but bitterness in his heart. Why isn't he allowed to say who he loves? Why does the world think who they are is wrong? It can't be, he thinks, glancing at Steve. Steve is everything that is right, and if he loves Bucky then it can't be wrong. He  _still_ loves Bucky, even after the serum, meaning it wasn't something to be fixed, Bucky realizes. They made Steve perfect in every way, but what would they say if they knew their golden boy was really queer? That for all their fancy science, they couldn't  _fix_ it, because it didn't need fixing? Steve loves Bucky and Bucky loves Steve, and goddamnit there's nothing wrong with that. But they're not in Brooklyn anymore, where every other person was queer and they could dance together in underground bars without anyone batting an eye. They're in the middle of a war zone, smack-dab in the public eye. There's even a film crew following them around for the reels back home. Steve is Captain America, and suddenly Bucky realizes that they'll never let him go. If they make it through this war they-the Army, the good old US of A, whoever-will come calling for Steve, wanting him to be a public figure or maybe tour around like he had before. Bucky and Steve won't be allowed a small, private life in Brooklyn, just the two of them. They can never go back, not really. This time, if Steve's arrested in a raid on one of the bars it'll cause a national scandal, and they'll probably find a way to lock him up forever. He won't go unnoticed like he did before. Hell, even living together will seem suspicious the older they get, and they'll be expected to settle down with a woman someday. Their life will consist of stolen moments and secrecy, and they'll never-they'll never get their happy ending, Bucky thinks. Not really. Not the way they want to, the way they dreamed of. 

He watches Steve, blonde hair glinting in the firelight and eyes bright and blue, face crinkled in laughter as Dum Dum tells some story, body warm and solid against Bucky. Steve may love him, but he certainly doesn't need him anymore, not after the serum. He deserves better. He deserves someone like...Peggy, Bucky thinks. Someone respectable he can settle down with, someone who can keep him in line with her sharp tongue but give him everything Bucky can't. A life. Marriage. Kids, maybe. Growing old together. Hell, Bucky is a goddamn vampire. That's no kind of life, and he'll only drag Steve down with him. Bucky always knew Steve was meant for great things, but he thinks, now, that maybe it won't be with him. Maybe he has to set Steve free. He'll take whatever moments he can get, here and now, but after the war- _if he's still alive-_ he'll set him free.

Steve's arm nudges his, breaking him from his thoughts. "You okay, Buck?" he questions, eyes worried.

Bucky nods, pasting on a small smile. "Yeah, fine pal."

***

They creep through the snowy forest cautiously, guns raised. They're deep into enemy territory now, venturing into Austria so they can make their way up into Germany. The 107th Tactical Team, their official name, goes first, Steve leading the way, while the rest of the military forces follow behind. Suddenly Steve pauses, looking around, and Bucky senses movement in the trees. Steve flings his shield, knocking a Hydra agent from the tree to land right behind Bucky, Dum Dum, and Monty, catching it again perfectly. Bucky gives him a small nod and they continue on, footsteps muffled by the dusting of snow that covers the ground. It's now been five days since Bucky has really fed beyond a mouthful, and the hunger is starting to gnaw at him again. The only upside is that his senses are acutely trained to human bodies and he makes the Hydra agents in the trees, aiming upwards suddenly and shooting before they have a chance to react. They fall to the ground as the men stare at him in admiration.

"How in the hell did you know they were there?" Dum Dum wonders.

Bucky shrugs. "Heard a sound and just guessed."

Steve waves a hand at them, rescuing Bucky from further scrutiny. "Come on. Let's keep moving." 

They keep moving, taking out hidden Hydra scouts as they weave around and through the Alps in the Western tip of Austria, planning to enter Germany and curve around Switzerland to the West to hit the German front line from the inside and allow their supplies to get through. When night falls they're still in Austria, the going slow due to the constant attacks. They make camp, Bucky volunteering along with Steve and a couple others to take watch. They find trees to sit against, Bucky's rifle in his lap and Steve's shield resting against his leg as he eats tinned food, Bucky giving his to him as well. Steve's scent is intoxicating more than the food, and Bucky finds himself swallowing down the hunger again with Steve so close to him, hands tightening on his rifle. Steve glances over, picking up on his tension.

"Hungry?" he asks quietly, too low for anyone else to hear.

Bucky shrugs. "A little."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "A  _little?"_

Bucky scowls. "Okay, fine, a fair amount. Jesus Christ."

Steve glances around. "Well, this is going to be difficult."

"You're telling me, pal."

Steve hesitates before picking up his shield and getting up, tugging Bucky after him. He starts forwards, nodding to the other men. "Thought I heard something. We're going to check it out. Stay where you are."

They all murmur affirmatives, hands tightening on their guns, and Bucky marvels at Steve's ingenuity. Steve leads them a ways into the forest until the men are out of sight, glancing around and then ducking behind a tree and taking his left glove off.

"Alright, bite my wrist. I can cover it with the glove." He holds his wrist out to Bucky. Bucky takes it hesitantly, stepping closer.

"Are you sure?"

"Just bite me already," Steve says with a small smirk. 

"Fucking punk. Fine." Bucky raises Steve's wrist to his mouth, pushing up his sleeve and kissing over the inside, feeling his fangs come down as the hunger sharpens and the smell of Steve fills his nose. He tightens his grip and sinks his fangs into the vein, hot blood filling his mouth and making everything disappear except for the scent and taste of Steve, skin warm under Bucky's hands. He takes only enough to clear his head and make the hunger retreat, going to pull back before Steve's hand  stops him.

"Take as much as you need. It might be a while till we can do this again."

Bucky releases Steve's wrist just enough to breathe, licking over it and making the blood flow stop somehow. "You sure? I don't want to hurt you."

Steve shakes his head. "You've barely taken anything from me the past few times. I can tell it's not enough. Come on, Buck. I'll be fine. I'll stop you if I start to feel faint."

Bucky squints at him before nodding. "Okay." He gently sinks his teeth back into Steve's wrist, feeling heady and brimming with energy as he takes more. He hadn't realized how good he could feel, only having drank enough to take the edge off the first time and then a few mouthfuls after that. Finally the hunger quiets completely and his head clears, sounds louder and even his vision sharper as he opens his eyes, feeling full for the first time. He releases Steve's wrist and licks over the wound, creating a faint shimmery seal that he can see now with his enhanced vision. Huh. He takes a deep breath, feeling warm and  _alive_ and like he could do anything. 

"Wow," he says softly, dropping Steve's arm. 

"Feel better?" Steve tugs his sleeve down and replaces his glove.

Bucky nods. "Yeah. Wow." He blinks. "I can hear your heart beating." He can, without even trying, can hear the steady thump of Steve's heart and even the soft flutter of wings overhead from a bird and the rustling of a squirrel yards away. It's dark, but he can see perfectly, every flake of snow in dizzying clarity. "Everything's so..." he murmurs.

"Clear?"

He nods. "Yeah. Like all my senses have been turned up to ten."

"That's how I felt, after the serum. Can you really hear my heartbeat, though? I can't do that."

"Yeah. And I can...I can feel you."

"Feel me?"

"Yeah. It started after we...you know. Like, I dunno how to explain it. I just have a sense of you. I know exactly where you are, sometimes vaguely what you're feeling, what you're doing. It's like we're connected." He shakes his head. "I don't know. It's probably because I've drank so much of your blood, and you've got the serum. Hell, for all I know your blood is regenerating inside me and making me into you."

"Well, I hope not," Steve says worriedly. "But there's probably something different about my blood compared to normal people. I don't know if...vampires...have powers or whether your enhanced senses are from my blood."

Bucky shrugs. "Maybe both. Anyway, we should get back. They'll be wondering where we are."

Steve blinks. "Oh. Right. Yeah. Good idea." He follows Bucky as they walk back to camp, the watch members relaxing when they see it's them.

"All clear?"

Steve nods. "All clear." He settles back next to Bucky against the tree, feeling so much closer than he is. It feels like he is consuming Bucky, filling him up, every sense highly attuned to Steve and a warm weight in his chest that he just knows is  _him._ He feels floaty and wonderful and better than he has in weeks, hell, months, every cell vibrating with energy. He and Steve take watch well into the night before Gabe and Dernier relieve them and they resettle by the fire, Bucky lying awake until the early hours of the morning. 

***

They walk the whole next day, finally reaching the border of Austria and Germany at nightfall. Bucky isn't even tired from the long walk, still brimming with energy from feeding. They set up camp again, finally out of the mountains and into thick forest where the snow is lighter, a small stream off to the side where they freshen up slightly and refill their canteens. Bucky plays with his knife again by the firelight, flipping it skillfully and catching it by the tip. 

"Hey Barnes, you got as good aim with that thing as you got with your rifle?" Dum Dum asks.

Bucky grins and hefts the knife, throwing it in one smooth motion to embed into the tree above Dum Dum's head with a thunk. The men laugh and Morita whistles as Dum Dum reaches up and pulls it out, flipping it in his own hand. He takes aim at the tree behind Bucky, flicking it across. It lands a couple feet over Bucky's head, slightly to the left, and Dum Dum groans as the men laugh again.

"Goddamnit. You win, Barnes."

Bucky pulls it out, wiping the wood dust on his uniform before stowing it away again with a smirk. "You should know not to challenge me by now."

"Yeah, yeah. You're the best marksman, we'd be lost without you, yadda yadda." Dum Dum grins. "A fella can try. Come on, everyone drink to Barnes. I swear you've spotted more Hydra soldiers in the trees than everyone else combined."

The men raise their cups, murmuring agreement. Bucky smiles tightly, anxiety clenching his stomach at the men having noticed his enhanced senses. It's not like he can just ignore it when he senses an enemy soldier, he'd never put their lives in danger like that, but he worries that at some point someone will figure out he's not exactly normal. 

***

It takes them six more days to get close to the front and the hunger is starting to blossom again, especially after the long, grueling walking each day interspersed with more and more Hydra and German forces. They're fighting for real now, running through the woods and firing as mortars explode all around, sending shrapnel ricocheting towards them. An impact sends Bucky staggering and a stinging sensation all down his left side but he ignores it, running forwards. Steve blocks explosions with his shield and the rest duck, Gabe's submachine gun carving a blazing path into the German forces. It's chaos all around, explosions rocking the earth and the screams of soldiers ringing in Bucky's ears, the smell of blood sharp and thick on the air and making his mouth water, something that horrifies him. He pushes it away and focuses on splitting away from the main group as they shield him, climbing a tree and beginning to pick off German soldiers from the front line. Soon their forces have the Germans surrounded and they send up a white flag, surrendering as the men cheer.

Bucky climbs down as they start to make the trek across no-man's land to the Allied trenches in France, handing the prisoners off to their forces. The vehicles are waiting for them, medics swarming out as injured men are dragged towards them, Bucky having to breathe through his mouth and turn away to quell the insistent hunger that presses at him at the smell of blood. He curses himself, shame clawing at him for being hungry when these men are suffering and injured. He pulls himself together, starting to direct men towards the vehicles and make sure everyone's accounted for. He sees medics with stretchers and points them towards the other side, where the injured who can't move are sure to be, and starts making his way across no-man's land to escort them. Men are laying dead or injured from the mortars, limbs blown off and some so mangled he knows they'll have to be identified by their dog tags. He hears a small sound further away, unheard by the medics, and sets off to investigate. It's an American soldier, one leg just a bloody stump at the knee, face cut from shrapnel and pain etched into every line, hidden from view by a slight hill and covered by dirt and pieces of an exploded tree. They would never have found him.  

Bucky kneels down next to him, breathing through his mouth.

"Hey pal, I'm gonna get you out of here. You with me?"

The soldier's eyes find his, wide and scared. He's only a kid, probably no more than nineteen or twenty, and his face is set in pain, visibly holding back tears. He nods slightly, breathing shallowly. Bucky finds his belt and unbuckles it, wrapping it around his leg above the stump and cinching it as tight as he can as the kid lets out a pained moan. Bucky sets a hand on his shoulder, almost shaking with the effort of pushing down his hunger.

"Hey, you're alright. What's your name?"

"Jim-Jimmy," the kid gasps.

Bucky smiles tightly. "I'm a James too. Sergeant James Barnes. I'm gonna be right back, I'm getting help, alright? You just hold on."

The kid nods and Bucky jogs away, flagging down a medic.

"Hey, I need help over here!" The medic grabs his stretcher and follows Bucky back to the kid, setting it down next to him. He sees the belt around his leg and nods at Bucky.

"Good thinking. Alright, let's get him on the stretcher." Bucky takes his head and shoulders while the medic takes his thighs, hauling him onto the stretcher as the kid cries out in pain. Bucky takes one end while the medic takes the other and they move as fast as they can out of the woods and across the plain to the med tent, another medic taking the stretcher from Bucky's hands. He watches as the kid disappears into the tent, knowing he'll probably never know what happens to him. 

A hand lands on Bucky's shoulder and he turns, seeing Dum Dum. He clears his throat. "Hey."

Dum Dum squints at him. "You alright? Your face is a bit cut up."

Bucky nods. "Yeah. Let's regroup and debrief."

"Sounds good."

The next couple hours pass by in a blur, the new front being fortified with troops and soldiers being directed to new places in the bombed-out town behind the trenches, German prisoners made ready for transport and secured. Bucky's head is spinning and hunger claws at him relentlessly, everything seeming too loud and fuzzy and the scent of blood sharp in his nose, blood smeared on his clothes and his hands though he doesn't know exactly where from. All of them bear a few scratches from the explosions, and he doesn't stop to take inventory of his injuries, running on adrenaline. He moves blindly, on instinct, directing soldiers and passing out rations from the supply trucks, Gabe heading to the radio command center to relay their success while cameras follow Steve as he moves through the town. Finally things seem to die down and Bucky sways on the spot, Morita's hand finding his shoulder.

"Hey Sarge, you alright? You don't look so good."

"Fine," he mumbles, just starting to feel pain blossoming through his body. Shit. "Come on, let's go." He starts to walk forward but stumbles, fiery pain shooting through his leg and arm as more hands steady him.

"Whoah," Dum Dum says. "You're not alright. You're pale as a sheet, too."

"I think some of that blood might be his," Monty notes, and Bucky thinks  _oh yeah, maybe._

"Come on, let's sit you down," Morita is saying, and then he's being lowered, back against a bombed-out building as fingers unbutton his coat and pat him over, finding the spots on his arm and leg that hurt. "Shit," Morita mutters. "Shrapnel. We're gonna need to dig this out." His face blurs in Bucky's vision as he looks around. "Medics are overloaded and you wouldn't get treated for hours, you're gonna have to make do with me. I got some basic knowledge. Someone got a knife and a lighter? Also, sutures and bandages. Someone run to the med tent."

Footsteps jog away and a knife flashes in front of Bucky's eyes, a click as Morita holds it over the small flame from the lighter. Bucky feels Steve getting nearer even before he hears his footsteps, the colors of his uniform swimming in front of Bucky's eyes.

"Oh god. Buck?" Steve's voice is borderline frantic as he crouches down, a hand on Bucky's shoulder as he assesses him.

"Shrapnel," Dum Dum says grimly. "Morita's gonna dig it out."

Footsteps sound and Dernier jogs back, bandages and suture equipment in hand. The lighter clicks off and the knife glints in front of him again.

"Alright, ready Sarge?" Morita questions. "This ain't gonna tickle."

Bucky takes a deep breath and nods. 

"Here." Dum Dum shoves a leather strap into his mouth, Bucky biting down. Morita rips the holes in his pants even more, revealing shrapnel embedded deep into his thigh and calf, bleeding sluggishly. With a final nod from Bucky Morita lowers the knife, starting to dig the shrapnel out. Bucky's head thunks back against the wall, teeth clenched tightly around the strap and breaths harsh and shallow against the excruciating pain in his leg as Morita digs around. Finally he tugs something out of Bucky's leg with a sickening sound, the world whiting out for a second and Bucky feeling warm wetness spill over his thigh as the wound starts to bleed in earnest. 

"Shit, okay, sutures. Cap, hold the wound closed." Steve's warm hands land on Bucky's thigh, pressing the edges of the wound together. Morita threads the needle, poised over the jagged gash. Then he works it through the flesh, tying the end off before starting to stitch the wound as Steve holds it closed, Bucky's teeth aching from how hard he's biting into the leather. Finally it's a crooked, sloppy line of sutures, Morita tying the thread off and wrapping bandages around his thigh. 

"One down, one to go for the leg," Morita says, picking up the knife again and wiping blood off it, sterilizing it with the lighter again. "You good, Sarge?"

Bucky nods vaguely against the wall and Morita starts in on his calf, Bucky squeezing his eyes shut and breathing through his nose, head fuzzy and light. He's back on Zola's table, harsh hands prying screams from his lips as he mumbles his name, rank, and service number over and over, drifting off into his head. He takes shallow breaths as Morita works, not making a sound, the scent of his own blood nauseating but the hunger inside him sharpened to a feral need. Finally Morita finishes stitching up his leg, wrapping it in bandages as Bucky's hands shake where they're curled into fists against the ground. 

"Alright, just the arm left and that's not that bad." His coat is already off and Morita widens the slashes in his sweater, a few small shards of shrapnel sticking out of his bicep. They come out easily and Morita simply bandages them, assessing Bucky critically. "Okay, you have some small cuts all along your left side but I think all the shrapnel is out. Let's get you somewhere for the night." He takes the leather out of Bucky's mouth, Bucky's head drooping with exhaustion and hunger as hands haul him to his feet, Steve warm and solid next to him and his scent intoxicating. 

"I got him," Steve says, slinging Bucky's right arm around his shoulders as Bucky leans in, Steve's throat so close and hot with blood....

Steve's hand squeezes around his waist painfully, a warning, and Bucky blinks back to reality, limping forward as Steve supports him. They make it into one of the buildings and Steve lowers him down, Bucky leaning against the wall again.

"He's so pale, how much blood did he lose?" He hears Monty mutter to Morita.

"I don't know. If he gets worse we'll take him to medical, but he probably just needs rest. He hasn't stopped for hours."

"That's our Barnes," Dum Dum chimes in quietly. "Always taking care 'a everyone but himself. Went over to the other side just to help the medics, found some injured soldier, and carried the stretcher all the way back to medical. Been running around on those injuries for hours. Probably didn't even feel 'em."

There's a pause, and Bucky's eyes droop as exhaustion takes over.

"We should finish up and debrief with the Commander here," Monty finally says. "Someone should stay with Barnes."

"I will," Steve speaks up from next to Bucky. "You guys go ahead."

"Alright. We'll be back." Bucky hears their footsteps leave and Steve shifts, hand coming to Bucky's cheek as Bucky blinks his eyes open, turning his head slightly towards the blood rushing just under Steve's skin.

"Bucky, hey. You need to feed?"

Bucky nods sluggishly, starting to mouth over Steve's wrist as his fangs come down, hand coming up to grip Steve's arm. Everything else fades away as Bucky sinks his fangs into Steve's wrist, grip tightening on Steve's arm as he drinks greedily, desperately. His head has only started to clear when Steve's other hand comes to Bucky's head, arm tugging away slightly. Bucky releases him, licking over the wound to seal it as he squints up at Steve.

"Sorry," Steve says. "I figure if you take a lot your wounds will heal and that'll be suspicious. You think you can stand to wait?"

Bucky nods, knowing Steve's logic is sound. At least he's not starving anymore, feeling more normal but still drained and injured. He sighs, sitting back against the wall. "Good thinking."

Steve smooths a strand of sweaty hair away from Bucky's forehead. "This answers one question though, I guess you can get injured and bleed. You just need more blood to heal it."

"Yeah." Bucky frowns. "Guess I'm just as mortal as anyone else."

Steve falls silent, settling with his left shoulder pressing against Bucky's right. "This too close?" he finally murmurs. "I don't want to like, torture you with temptation. I can't even imagine what it's like."

Bucky shakes his head. "It's fine. I like having you close. I can deal with a little hunger, Steve." He leans his head on Steve's shoulder, inhaling his scent as his mouth waters but in control enough to resist, the feeling like having dinner in front of him when he was hungry as a kid but being able to restrain himself from just grabbing it and stuffing it in his mouth. He does have a fair amount of control, he's realized. He's not the bloodthirsty, feral monster he thought vampires were, the hunger really comparable to hunger for food before. He needs it, sure, but he never loses himself completely to it. It's reassuring, and Bucky thinks unless he's seriously starved and out of his head then he'll never hurt Steve or anyone just to get blood. He has control. 

Bucky falls asleep that way, head on Steve's shoulder, surrounded by destruction and death and blood but at peace, the empty building quiet and serene and Steve's breaths in his ear, nothing else existing except for them. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes slowly, low voices speaking. His head is no longer on Steve's shoulder but rather on something soft, lying horizontal on the ground. He hears his name and keeps his eyes closed, listening to the muted conversation. 

"-gonna be alright?"

"He'll be fine. Barnes is tough. Didn't even make a peep when you were digging in his leg. Most men'd be cryin'."

"Hell, he survived Zola. No one else can say that."

There's a pause. "We still don't know what Zola did to him. He won't talk about it."

"Can't blame him. I wouldn't either. If I ever get my hands on that sick bastard..."

"I hear you. But what are we gonna do in the meantime? He won't be able to fight for a while. Hell, he should probably be sent home with these injuries, but you know he won't leave Rogers."

"Probably stay here a while, help man the front. If we get it pushed back far enough it'll make it easier to make our way through Germany and hit the Hydra base near Lübben, then move into Poland and hit the two there."

"True. Let's just hope those injuries actually heal well, or we're losing our best marksman. I'm blamin' you if they heal wrong, Jim."

"Hey, I think I did a pretty good job, considering. Besides, I got a feeling Barnes heals a little faster than most people. It's why I didn't take him to medical. He was beat to hell in that factory when they took him away an' then only had light bruises after, and then they completely disappeared the day after we got to London. I'm not saying anything, just..."

"Yeah. And he spotted those Hydra agents in the trees when even Rogers didn't. Who knows what Zola did, but I got a feeling it wasn't as unsuccessful as Barnes said. Either way, listen, we ain't gonna say anything, are we fellas? He's one of us."

"My lips are sealed."

"He's always got my back. I've got his."

"Not a word." 

"Rien de moi."

"Good. Now-"

Bucky shifts and groans, pretending to just wake up as Dum Dum's voice cuts off. He cracks open his eyes as footsteps approach, Morita kneeling down next to him and the others clustered around.

"Hey Sarge, how you feeling?"

"Ugh." Bucky's leg is throbbing, whole left side sore and aching. He goes to sit up, Morita steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. "Like you stabbed me with a knife," Bucky rasps.

Morita chuckles. "Sorry." He helps Bucky shift to lean back against the wall, passing him a canteen of water. Bucky drinks, the water soothing his parched throat and actually helping a little bit, his head becoming clearer.

"Where's Steve?" he questions.

"Oh, you know, out making the rounds, helping the front, lifting morale," Dum Dum replies. "He'll be back."

Morita hands Bucky a tin of food and Bucky takes it, eating without tasting it. Morita bends down over his thigh, undoing the bandages through the torn fabric of Bucky's pants. Underneath they're stained with blood but the stitches are holding, no trace of infection around them. The wound looks slightly healed though not much, probably because Bucky hadn't taken much blood from Steve. He's still hungry, but it's a low simmer and he shoves it down, watching as Morita re-wraps the wound and goes to check on the other. Finally he moves to his arm, his reinforced coat having protected him from the worst and the shrapnel cuts only shallow. Bucky can feel more cuts on the left side of his neck and face where there was no protection and sends up thanks that he didn't get any big pieces of shrapnel to the face. The other men have fared similarly, with small tears in their uniforms from the shrapnel but no large pieces like Bucky. When Morita's done checking he stands up again, nodding.

"Looks good. We'll find somewhere more comfortable for you to stay. Rogers can pull some strings."

Bucky nods. "Thanks Jim."

"Hey, anytime."

***

The day passes slowly, Steve coming back and helping Bucky to limp to a tent they've given him, with a thick bedroll set up that Bucky sinks onto gratefully. He spends the day bored as Steve or one of the men occasionally come to check on him, smoking a few cigarettes to pass the time. The sounds of explosions and gunfire are distant, further down the front, and he eventually tunes them out as he withdraws his small notebook, doing equations and doodling inventions as the hours tick by. Someone has retrieved his coat, and he manages to sit up and mend the tears in the sleeve with the silk thread stowed in his pack, cleaning the blood off as best he can. On a food break when Steve comes back he helps Bucky change into his spare pants and Bucky sets to mending the torn, bloodstained ones as best he can, deciding to keep them just in case he needs another spare. In the evening Steve flops down on his own bedroll next to Bucky's only in his pants and an undershirt as he steals Bucky's cigarette to take a few drags, passing it back. He looks tired, Bucky thinks, something sad in his eyes, and Bucky scoots nearer to press his shoulder against Steve's.

"Hey pal, what's wrong?"

"Nothin'," Steve says stubbornly.

"Don't bullshit me, Rogers."

Steve sighs, rolling onto his side to look at Bucky. "I dunno. You, everything. Seeing you hurt was terrifying. And there's just...I know it's war, and I've been killing enemy soldiers, but seeing all that death and blood....I've never seen that before. Men losing limbs, blown to hell..."

"Yeah." Bucky swallows. "It's war. Hate to say it pal, but you do kinda get used to it."

"I know. But I don't want to. They're all people, every single one. If we start to forget that...who are we?"

Bucky takes another drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out. "I don't know, pal." He stares up at the ceiling of the tent, thinking of scared eyes looking up at him from a young face. "I don't know."

***

A week passes this way, Bucky gradually allowed outside of his tent for short excursions, leg stiff and sore but healing. Steve rations his blood intake, only giving him a small amount each night to keep him level and healing at a steady pace. It's cold out, only a couple weeks until Christmas, and snow drifts down gently from the sky to blanket everything in pristine whiteness soon marred by footprints and gunpowder and blood, the distant explosions now barely registering in Bucky's mind. Every time Steve goes to help push the front and secure it Bucky worries and sits restlessly inside the tent, feeling powerless to help. He needs to be watching Steve's back, not stuck here on his ass. He smokes and scribbles and mends clothes for the other men, all of them knowing he's going insane being cooped up. He hobbles around the base on a crutch when they're not looking, helping where he can until one of them or Steve finds him and herds him back to his tent with exasperation. 

He gets letters from his parents and Becca, reading them eagerly.

_November 30, 1943_

_James,_

_My darling boy, we're so happy to hear that you're okay. Please stay safe, we love and miss you so much. I heard about Captain America rescuing prisoners, I can't believe that's our little Steve Rogers. Tell me more about everything that's going on and what you're doing now. How are you? Are you eating enough? Our Thanksgiving was quiet without you, and we weren't sure if you were alive then. I hope to hear from you before Christmas but if not, Merry Christmas from all of us. Do you do anything over there to celebrate? Becca misses you dearly, I can tell, but I know she's writing to you as well. We all miss you. Aunt Mabel keeps asking how you are, and even the lady who runs the grocery store was asking after you the other day. It's quiet here, with most of the men gone, and we're doing all we can to help the war effort. We bought war bonds and even planted a victory garden in the back, although we won't get anything until spring. Food is rationed but it's not bad, and I'm making new recipes every day. I do hope they're feeding you enough over there. When you come home I'll make you all your favorite dishes-Ma. Stay safe, our darling boy._

_Love,_

_Ma and Pa_

He smiles, eyes feeling moist. God, he misses his Ma. He tears open Becca's letter next, scanning the lines.

_November 30, 1943_

_Bucky,_

_I can't believe you're alive. I really thought you were gone, but when I got your letter it was the most incredible thing to ever happen. I cried, Ma cried, and even Pa shed a tear. I wish I could just hug you for hours straight. God I miss you, Bucky. Nothing's the same without you here. I've started working in a factory with the other girls since all the men are gone, and it's hard work and long hours but I feel proud of what I'm doing. I think I want to go to college after the war, really want to do something with my life. Pa disapproves, says I just need to find a man and settle down, but that's not what I want to do. Please tell me you approve-you're the only one whose opinion I care about. And please tell me you're still okay, that you're staying safe. I can't believe Steve is Captain America, but I know you'll follow him to the ends of the earth. I understand. Just please, please, stay safe. I can't lose you. We're Bucky and Becca, remember? Promise me you'll come home. Thinking of you always._

_Love,_

_Becca_

He has to blink rapidly to keep the tears from spilling down his face. He takes a shaky breath, grabbing his victory mail paper and pen and beginning to write replies.

_December 12, 1943_

_Ma and Pa,_

_Sorry it's been so long since I've written. Everything has been chaotic but right now I'm in France, on the front lines. I can't tell you everything about our missions since they're classified, but I'm working with Steve and a bunch of other guys to take down Hydra. They've started calling us 'The Invaders,' apparently. Right now I'm laid up with a leg injury but I'll be fine in another week or so, so don't worry about me. I'm doing okay, going out of my mind with boredom being laid up, and they are feeding us enough though it's nothing like your cooking. Wish I could have been there for Thanksgiving. I'll probably still be here for Christmas, but I don't know yet what we'll do to celebrate. I hope yours is wonderful. I'm glad to hear you're doing well, tell Aunt Mabel I said hello and that I'm doing okay, and Mrs. Travis the same. I look forward to eating your cooking when I get home, you'll have to stock up. Miss you dearly._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

Bucky sets down the pen and folds the letter, moving to the next one.

_December 12, 1943_

_Becca,_

_I miss you so much. I want to wrap you in a hug and never let go. It's great to hear that you're working, and of course I approve of you making something of yourself. You're brilliant, Becs. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different. You could do anything you want if you set your mind to it. I'm safe, and I told Ma and Pa this briefly but I'll tell you in more detail. Ma worries. I'm in France, by the front, and I'm laid up cause I got shrapnel in my leg. One of the guys-Jim, I know, there's actually three James' on this team and none of us go by James-had to dig it out of my leg. Hurt like hell, but I'll be alright in another week or so. Steve's fighting, and it scares me to death but so far he's been okay. I can't wait till I'm well enough to watch his back again, because I know the stupid punk will get in trouble without me. I promise to try and stay safe, and to come home. We're Bucky and Becca, always._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

Satisfied, he folds both up and seals them, grabbing the crutch next to his bedroll and hobbling out of the tent towards the letter drop-off. He slips them in, nodding to a few of the men as he hobbles back, filled with bittersweet happiness. He's happy to hear from his family, but it only reminds him how much he misses them. It's been months since he shipped out, more than a year since he started training. His injury is stark evidence that he is not immortal, and for a moment he wonders if he can keep his promise to Becca after all. If he'll ever make it home.

***

They have to be silent in the tent, the canvas thin and anyone apt to walk by it at anytime, though they're safer in the middle of the night. Steve climbs over Bucky, taking care not to bump his injured thigh as he straddles his waist. He leans down and captures Bucky's mouth in a kiss, hands roving over Bucky's chest. Bucky shivers and Steve smiles, leaning down to press kisses over his chest, dog tags moving with every breath. He kisses Bucky's neck before biting softly and Bucky inhales sharply, rocking his hips up.

"Who's the vampire here?" he breathes. 

Steve chuckles, kissing up Bucky's jaw until their lips meet again, rolling his hips against Bucky's. "Shhh."

"Fuck you, Rogers," Bucky whispers.

"Shhh," Steve repeats and smirks, eyes glinting, before straightening up and bracing a hand on Bucky's throat, fingers wrapped around it gently as he rolls his hips again. Bucky swallows down a moan, eyes fluttering as he stays pliant under Steve, letting him take control. 

"Good," Steve whispers, voice wrecked, fingers flexing on Bucky's throat as he reaches over with his other hand to retrieve the small jar of petroleum jelly, Bucky's breaths going shallow.

Bucky takes Steve apart slowly in the darkness but Steve remains in control, fingers wrapped around Bucky's throat as he rides him. When they're almost to the edge Bucky sits up as Steve straddles his lap, hands holding him in place as he sinks his teeth into Steve's neck, Steve gasping silently as their release overtakes them both. They curl up afterwards, Bucky's head on Steve's chest as Steve runs a hand through his hair, heartbeat slow and steady in Bucky's ear.

***

Another week passes, and Bucky is getting to be well known by all the soldiers here. He helps young soldiers mend things and teaches them how to shoot better and to throw a knife, his protective instinct rearing its head as he takes them all under his wing, offering words of encouragement and consolation. Peggy Carter arrives, looking impeccable as always even decked out in combat gear as she strolls through the bombed-out buildings. She greets Steve with a small quip and a smile, Steve brightening upon seeing her. All the other soldiers are scandalized that a woman is fighting with them, but Steve treats her no differently, respectful and courteous as always. He treats her like a person, instead of a woman, and Peggy is clearly enamored with him. Bucky thinks Steve might be enamored right back, but can't bring himself to ask. 

Once Morita stops checking Bucky's leg Steve allows Bucky to feed as much as he actually wants, the wounds healing into scars in a matter of hours and relief finally flooding through him. He hadn't realized how hungry he was all the time until he isn't. He still keeps up the pretense that his leg is healing, though, affecting a slight limp every few steps and remembering to wince if he bumps it. It seems to work, and the men don't question it, though he wonders if it's because of the conversation he overheard. They obviously know something is up, but they seem to be keeping his secret, something that makes him immensely grateful. They're the best guys he could have asked for, to fight alongside of. Hell, to be friends with. 

***

Christmas comes, and Dum Dum manages to procure alcohol and cigars from somewhere, all of them except Steve and Bucky getting drunk. There's been a truce between the two sides, the sound of explosions notably absent, and they eat special rations and sing Christmas carols all day, snow falling around them. Peggy even graces him with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, managing to thoroughly tear down Dum Dum in a teasing way, all the men laughing uproariously. She's smart and witty and beautiful, and Bucky thinks he would fall in love with her if his heart didn't solely belong to Steve and if he didn't prefer men to women. She's perfect for Steve, though, watching them interact, and Bucky tries to make his peace with the fact that Steve will probably marry her after the war if all goes well. Steve isn't his to keep. 

***

The day after Christmas the truce ends with a bang, Bucky jerking up in his tent in the middle of the afternoon to the sound of shells exploding close by and gunfire and screams meeting his ears. He jogs out of the tent, looking around as people run. He sees Peggy Carter and stops her.

"What's going on?"

"Steve's leading an attack against the front line," she replies. "Trying to push through."

Bucky narrows his eyes. "The  _hell_ he is." He ducks back into his tent, throwing on his blue coat and gearing up. Peggy comes into the tent, eyes widening as she sees him.

"Sergeant Barnes, you shouldn't be going. You're still healing."

"I'm fine," he replies tightly, hefting his rifle. "It's Steve I'm worried about."

Peggy purses her lips, then nods, something understanding in her eyes. "Alright. Be careful."

He gives her a small nod. "Yes ma'm." Then he's running out, following the others as they stream across the plain and into the woods, past where they've driven the line to where mortar shells are exploding and Bucky catches the flash of Steve's shield. He sees the men as well and makes his way towards them, picking off a German soldier aiming for Dum Dum. He whirls, mouth falling open as he catches sight of Bucky, the other men doing the same.

"Sarge, what the hell are you doing here?"

He fires again, jogging beside them. "Making sure Steve doesn't get himself killed."

"Well alright then. Let's go."

The battle is vicious and bloody, Steve and the tactical team finally punching through and making their way along the German trenches, blowing up tanks and generally decimating their forces. By the time it's over and the remaining forces have surrendered they've managed to push back the line an incredible distance, opening up a bridge and roads for transportation. Once again Bucky helps direct soldiers and the injured, Steve catching sight of him and jogging over with a worried look on his face.

"Buck, you shouldn't be here."

Bucky rolls his eyes, lowering his voice. "Steve, you more than anyone know I'm completely healed. I had to make sure you didn't get your stupid ass killed."

Steve smirks. "Thanks, pal." Then he's off again, speaking in his Captain's voice that he's somehow perfected, all authoritative and sure as if he's not just winging it half the time. Bucky meets up with the other men and they trudge back to the bombed-out city, a long ways away now and starting to be uprooted as everything is moved closer to the new front. Bucky gathers his things, knowing it's time to head out. The other men do the same, and Bucky corrals what's left of the unit of men that travel with them and tell them to get ready for more missions. They've stayed here long enough, it's time to kick some Hydra ass.

In a few hours they're moving, tanks and trucks rolling along after Steve on his motorcycle, crossing the bridge and entering deeper into German territory. Peggy is staying behind, setting up an SSR base near the front and handling communications. They're heading towards the base near Lübben, way at the eastern-most edge of Germany near Poland. They plan to take out German supply lines and disrupt troop movements as they go, helping the Allies to maintain their hold and pushing back the Hydra line. Bucky sits with the others in the open car, cold air ruffling his hair but feeling no chill, the sounds of the front line dying away as they drive forwards.

***

Bucky follows Steve into the woods on the pretense of hearing something, waiting until they're far enough away from the watch before Steve strips off his glove and pushes up his uniform sleeve, offering his wrist to Bucky. Bucky grabs it gently but leans in to kiss Steve first, not having been able to do so properly in weeks. He allows himself a minute to melt into Steve's soft mouth before he pulls away, knowing they don't have long. He turns so his back is to Steve, leaning back against his chest as he raises Steve's wrist to his mouth, kissing and mouthing at the inside before sinking his fangs in. Steve's other arm wraps around his waist and he rests his head on Bucky's shoulder, warm and solid against him. 

***

It's mid-January and they're still moving through Germany, sticking to back roads to avoid the Nazi presence. It's slow going and they're barely a third of the way there, right outside Ingolstadt. The film crew hefts the camera as they pore over the map, Steve flicking open his compass to show the newspaper clipping of Peggy he'd put inside, something he had assured Bucky was for the cameras.

"We're just friends," he had asserted. "Nothing more. I love you."

"Sure pal," Bucky had responded. "No, it's alright. She's perfect for you." He'd ignored the slightly hurt expression on Steve's face, turning away before Steve could read the bitter truth in his eyes. 

***

They lie side by side on bedrolls by the fire, watching the stars up above. The night is clear and cloudless, stars twinkling in the darkness and Bucky tracing constellations from memory.

"Never could see the stars in Brooklyn," Steve murmurs next to him. "Too much light."

"Yeah. They're beautiful," Bucky says softly.

Steve rolls on his side, inching closer, the rest of the men asleep or out of sight on watch. "You're beautiful," Steve whispers, hand snaking down to grip Bucky's.

Bucky squeezes his hand back, turning his head to see Steve. Firelight glints off his blonde hair and makes the planes of his face look even more sculpted, crystal blue eyes gazing at Bucky full of love. Love he doesn't deserve. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, playing it off. "When'd you get so sappy?"

Steve's still staring at him intently. "I dunno. Maybe when I thought I lost you, and when I  _can_ lose you, any day." He shrugs. "I always thought I would go first, some winter, when pneumonia got me, but I never considered you dying." His eyes search Bucky's. "I can't lose you."

Bucky squeezes his hand again. "You won't. I'm with you till the end of the line, remember?"

***

_January 1, 1944_

_Bucky,_

_Happy New Year! Christmas was fun but quiet without you and Steve, and with the rationing Ma couldn't make her famous Christmas dinner the same way. It was strange, decorating the tree all by myself, and not being able to exchange presents. It's snowing here, is it snowing there? We went to Midnight Mass, but you weren't there to whisper jokes in my ear the whole time and I fell asleep. I miss you, Bucky, so much. I'm glad you're safe and I hope your leg is healing well, that sounds horrifying. Worse than that time I fell and broke my arm and you had to carry me back home, remember? We didn't tell Ma all the details then, either. It's funny that there's so many James' on your team, I know Ma and Pa are the only ones who still insist on calling you that. You'll always be Bucky to me. Glad Steve's got you to watch his back, you're right that he'd probably do something stupid without you. Wouldn't last a week, I'd say. I made a couple friends in the factory, they want to go to college too! We're going to try and apply to some after the war is over. I hope it ends soon, I can't wait to see you again. Stay safe out there._

_Love,_

_Becca_

Bucky reads the letter before writing a response, sloppy and smudged as he braces the paper against his knee.

_January 20, 1944_

_Becca,_

_Happy New Year. I miss you too. I'm safe and my leg is healed just fine but I can't tell you where we are right now. We had a small celebration for Christmas, but it doesn't compare to the Barnes family Christmas. Hearing that made me miss you even more, and I wish I could have been home to do all our traditions instead of stuck here. I promise I'll do all of them and get you the biggest present ever the next Christmas I'm home. And yes, it is snowing here, but it's more cold and miserable than fun. Your letter made me remember that day you broke your arm and though it was horrible then it made me laugh when I read it. We're never telling Ma about that, ever. And yup, we have James Montgomery Falsworth, who we call 'Monty,' James Morita, who we call 'Jim' or just 'Morita,' and me of course. You're forgetting that Aunt Mabel always calls me 'Jimmy,' which is worse than James, I think. I met a Jimmy last month, injured kid I helped carry to the medics. I guess James is a popular name, huh? I'm watching Steve's back again and he's safe, only doing a few stupid things a week which I count as an improvement. I'm glad you made some friends, and you'll have to let me know which colleges you're applying to! I hope the war ends soon, too. I can't wait to see you. Can I tell you a secret? I hate war. I'm tired. I've seen so much shit, Becs, you wouldn't believe it. I just want Steve to be safe, and I want to come home and hug you and Ma and eat good food instead of the stuff they try to feed us out here. But anyway, love and miss you. Write soon._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

***

They wait while Dernier runs into the road, rolling under a tank as it passes and sticking explosives to the underside. He plugs his ears and they watch as it explodes down the road, Dernier clapping. They've managed to disrupt German supply lines as they go, staying away from the heavily manned areas in their single-minded quest to get to the Hydra base but still wreaking enough havoc to be satisfied with themselves. Sometimes Bucky wonders if there's things they should be doing, where the questionable supplies are really going, but they have a mission and they can't veer from it. Their mission isn't Nazi Germany or even the Axis Powers, it's Hydra. If they can take out Hydra, the war will end quickly.

***

It's February and they're a little north of central Germany near Leipzig, still steadily making their way towards the base. They run into trouble with a patrol of German soldiers and get separated, making their way through the woods quietly until they come to the edge of the road, a couple open-top jeeps full of soldiers sitting idle. 

"Let's take them out," Steve whispers. 

They all nod affirmative and Bucky picks a concealed spot at the edge of the woods, laying down and aiming his rifle as Steve waits to the side. Bucky fires, taking out two soldiers, Steve and the others rushing out onto the room before they can return fire. Soon all ten men are down but there's the rumbling of trucks up the road and they all freeze, looking at each other.

"Shit," Steve says.

Falsworth glances at the jeeps. "Anyone know how to steal a car?"

Dernier hops into the driver's seat of one. "Oui." They all look at each other and shrug before piling in, Steve in the passenger seat with Bucky crammed next to him, the other four in the back. Dernier pulls out the wires and uses a knife to strip them, sparking them together as the car starts and they all cheer quietly. Then he slams the gas and they peal out just as the trucks come around the corner, all ducking as shots begin to ring out, bouncing against the back. Bucky climbs into Steve's lap facing backwards, putting his rifle on Steve's shoulder as he lines up the shot. Steve's hand comes up to cover his ear and Bucky fires, shooting the driver and then the tires on the truck and making it come to a screeching halt as he sits back down in the seat with a thump.

Morita whistles. "Damn, Sarge, that was something else."

Bucky grins, reaching over to ruffle Steve's hair. "Steve's a good rifle mount, it seems."

The men laugh as they drive away down the open road, Steve's shoulder pressed to Bucky's.

***

They finally reach the base near Lübben, blowing it up with grim satisfaction. Afterwards they search the rubble for intel and wounded, Bucky watching Steve's six from a hill overlooking the base. A Hydra agent creeps around the corner, gun trained on Steve, and Bucky shoots him through the head without flinching, releasing the cartridge from his rifle. Steve turns and snaps off a small salute, and Bucky groans before getting up and high-tailing it out of here, position certainly given away to anyone watching. Steve probably figured there was no one watching, and there doesn't seem to be, but Bucky's not taking any chances. When they regroup he immediately marches over to Steve, scowling.

"Seriously? You gave away my position, you idiot!"

Steve scoffs. "There was no one watching."

Bucky huffs an incredulous breath. "No one watching? How can you be sure? Steve, you always assume someone's watching! I swear to god, you're gonna get you or me killed one day!"

Steve flinches like he's been struck. Bucky falters, realizing that had come out harsher than he intended. 

"Sorry," Steve says flatly. "I won't do it again."

Bucky is acutely aware that the other men are watching them, but he doesn't care. He covers his hesitation, meeting Steve's eyes with all the anger he can muster. "Good," he snaps, before turning and walking away. 

They're silent and irritable the rest of the day, not speaking more than two words to each other. The men keep looking between them with bewildered expressions, giving each other significant looks as if to say  _no, you do something about it._ Bucky ignores them, waiting for he and Steve to both cool down. He does, eventually, feels the anger drain away to be replaced with shame and worry, looking up across the fire to meet Steve's eyes. Steve's face softens and he gets up, heading into the forest as Bucky follows, not even bothering to give an excuse to the men. They stop when they're a fair distance away, staring at the ground awkwardly.

"I'm sor-"

"I'm so-"

They both say at the same time, before breaking into relieved laughter. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky finally says. "I shouldn't have snapped, or said what I did. I didn't really mean it."

Steve nods. "I'm sorry too. I should've been more careful. I'd never-" He swallows. "I'd never do anything to put you in harm's way."

"I know," Bucky says softly. He thinks of where they are, how he'd turned down a chance to go home and be safe just for Steve. Steve  _is_ putting him in harm's way, ironically, but not on purpose. He'd tell Bucky to get on the next boat home if that's what he wanted. "C'mere," he says, stepping forward to draw Steve into a hug. He inhales Steve's scent, tears pricking his eyes as he tightens his grip. "God I love you," he chokes out. "I just get so goddamn scared sometimes. You're so reckless, and brave, and  _stupid,_ and I can't lose you."

Steve grips him back just as hard, face pressed into Bucky's shoulder. "I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I can't lose you either. Let's promise, alright? Promise we'll never lose each other."

"I promise," Bucky breathes. "I'm with you till the end of the line."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of research that has gone into this fic is insane, and some things are sorta historically accurate but the MCU didn't follow any actual WWII reality it seems no neither will I. Pretend Captain America radically changes the war, so a lot of shit happens earlier and they actually manage to drive across Nazi Germany when that wouldn't have happened/been possible.


	5. Chapter 5

_March 1, 1944_

_Becca,_

_I miss you, kid. My birthday is coming up and I just keep thinking how much older I'm gonna be. Twenty-seven. Wow. And you're only twenty-five. In my head you're still twelve, with a ribbon in your hair and Ma scolding you cause you got the hem of your new dress all muddy. It feels like a lifetime since I've seen you. I keep wondering if you look any different, or if I do. Actually, I'm certain I do. I worry you won't recognize me when I come home. I'm turning twenty-seven, but God Becs, I feel so much older. This war has aged me years, I think. I tell Steve he's giving me grey hairs, too, but that's nothing new. It feels strange almost, getting older. Last fall I didn't think I'd make it to my birthday but here we are. Another year older. I think. You know, I wonder if Steve will age the same, sometimes. If the serum is gonna make him live forever. I'd like that, Steve living a long time. I couldn't bear to lose him, so I know I gotta go first. ~~I don't know if I age either anymore~~ I want a few more birthdays, though. There's so much I haven't done. Steve and I always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon, you know that? Maybe after the war we'll get to go. I want to finish college too. There's so many new inventions and science and technology and I want to learn it all. I want to do something good in the world, with my life, cause I'm not sure if I am now. I'm good at killing people, Becs, too good, and it scares me. I'm only twenty-six, will be twenty-seven, and I've already seen so much death. And there's guys younger than me out here, eighteen-year-old kids who look up to me and want to be like me and I don't know how to tell them that they shouldn't. That war isn't what you see on propaganda posters or screens. It's hell, and I've looked into the scared eyes of eighteen-year-old kids who just happened to be on the wrong side and I've shot them right between the eyes without flinching. I'm not sure I'm a good man, anymore._  _Anyway_ , _hell, I don't know why I'm writing this, Becs, I'm sorry. Ignore all that. It's cold and rainy here, Ma always said bad weather made me moody. I'm safe, and I miss you._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

***

They're in Poland, camped in the woods after taking down the first base. It's still freezing here, and the rain is close to sleet, but Bucky barely feels it even though the constant dampness is uncomfortable. The men are crowded into one tent, playing cards as the canvas shivers with raindrops above them. A cigarette hangs from the corner of Bucky's mouth, legs crossed and cards in his hand with one knee almost brushing Steve's. 

"You're a goddamn cheater, Rogers," Dum Dum exclaims.  

Steve affects an innocent expression. "Me? I'm Captain America."

"Don't let him fool you," Bucky grumbles. "He's the worst cheater I have ever laid eyes on. Can't play a game straight to save his life."

Steve elbows him lightly in the ribs. "Lies, it's all lies."

Bucky shakes his head. "Nope. It's all you, pal."

"Alright, let's see your hand," Morita challenges. 

Steve scoffs. "No way."

Falsworth grins. "Oh, now you have to. I need to see this."

"Lay 'em out, Cap," Jones says.

Steve sighs before throwing down his cards, a goddamn trash hand as the men shout.

"Wahoo!" Dum Dum shouts. "I win, Rogers. You're a dirty cheater."

Bucky chuckles. "Told you."

"Hey hey, we need more stories," Morita says, grinning at Bucky "You guys lived together. Surely you have some good ones."

Bucky's grin widens. "Oh yeah. I have plenty." He turns to Steve. "What do you think, should we start with the one about the dog or the one about that time you got drunk and-"

Steve's hand claps over his mouth. "Nope, no idea what you're talking about."

Bucky pries Steve's hand away as the men laugh. "Alright, so we're going with that one. So, it's 1934, Steve's sixteen, and we've got this whole bottle of whiskey..."

Steve groans, face going red, and the sounds of laughter fill the tent, cigarette smoke gently drifting through the air and making everything hazy.

***

"Happy Birthday!" the men chorus, as he ducks into the tent. He stops in surprise, breaking into a smile. They're all standing huddled together in the small tent, broad grins on their faces and various flasks of alcohol and a pack of cigars in their hands, a lumpy package in Dum Dum's hand. 

"Thanks," he says, moving forward as they all draw him into brief hugs, clapping him on the back. Dum Dum presses the lumpy package into his hands.

"Here, this is from all of us."

Curious, Bucky tears the packaging, revealing a beautiful knife with an engraved handle, _JBB_ etched into the polished wood. He turns it, the blade glinting and sharp.

"This is incredible. How in the hell did you get this?"

"Stark," Gabe says. "We asked him for the best knife he had, and then Monty did the engraving."

"We know you like your knives," Morita adds. "And you lost your best one back in Germany."

Bucky feels unexpected warmth fill him up. "Thanks, fellas. This is amazing." He flips it experimentally, marveling at the perfect balance, before tucking it into the knife pouch in his belt. "C'mere."

The men laugh and pile in for a group hug before Dum Dum starts passing out cups and pouring alcohol into them. "Drink up, boys! It's time to celebrate."

They clink their cups and drink, Steve meeting Bucky's eyes across from him with a fond look. They both drink, though they know it won't affect them, and Dum Dum passes out cigars as they sit in a circle on the ground of the small tent, talking and laughing as the men get progressively drunker. 

"J'ai accidentellement mis le feu à moi-même," Dernier slurs, lying on his back, and Bucky's picked up enough French to understand him now.  _I once accidentally set fire to myself._

"Comment est-ce arrivé?" Gabe hiccups.  _How did that happen?_

"J'essayais de le faire exploser."  _I was trying to make it explode._

Gabe squints blearily. "Ça n'a aucun sens."  _That makes no sense._

Dernier just waves a hand, cup sloshing dangerously. "Boom."

Gabe nods as if this has explained everything. 

Dum Dum's voice booms over them, having grown louder and louder the more drunk he's gotten. "Wahoo! No, I'm telling you, it was true!" He laughs, bowler cap knocked off somewhere and eyes bright with drink, cigar still dangling from his mouth. "Wait a minute, where's-where's my hat?" He searches around, almost falling over.

Bucky sighs and retrieves his hat from the corner of the tent, shoving it on Dum Dum's head and sitting down beside Morita, Steve rolling his eyes across from him. "You an' your hat, Dum Dum."

"Hey! It's a great hat."

"You know," Morita says contemplatively, eyes lidded and speech slurred, "Sarge is the only one without a hat. Dum Dum's got his, Monty's got his beret, Gabe wears a helmet, me 'an Frenchy got hats, and Cap's got his helmet. But Barnes-Barnes doesn't have a hat." He pats Bucky's head drunkenly and Bucky stifles his flinch.

"Guess not," Bucky says. 

"Why-why not?" Morita frowns like this genuinely puzzles him.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, shrugging. "I dunno. I just don't."

"Hmm." Morita nods, raising his cup. "You're unique. Only one wi' a unique uniform, too, 'sides Cap."

"My uniform's unique," Monty interjects. "My beret is  _red._ " He nods decisively, accent even more clipped when drunk. "I'm British."

"Red...red white and blue!" Morita cheers. "That's-that's Captain America's colors!"

"And Britain," Monty protests.

"Yeah, yeah, we know, Union Jack," Dum Dum says. "Hell, that is strange, an Englishman fighting for Captain America. And Frenchie, too. What the hell were you thinking?"

"What the hell was  _I_ thinking," Morita mutters, looking slightly green now. 

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, still stone-cold sober. "God help me," he mutters.

***

He finally ducks into his shared tent with Steve, the sounds of the men's snoring faint in his ears. They're passed out drunk in a huge pile in one tent, Bucky having no inclination to try and sort it out. They can yell at him in the morning. 

Steve's already laying on his back and Bucky settles down next to him, propping his arms on his chest.

"I have a present for you," Steve says softly, running a finger down Bucky's arm.

Bucky raises an eyebrow suggestively. "Oh yeah?"

Steve chuckles. "Well, that too. But no, I made you something." He reaches and retrieves a piece of paper, unfolding it and giving it to Bucky as Bucky sits up. It's a drawing of Steve, small and slender, sitting on the fire escape with Brooklyn in the background. It's beautiful.

Steve looks uncomfortable. "I know, um, soldiers have their girls back home send them pictures to keep with them and, well, I thought-"

Bucky cuts him off with a kiss. "It's perfect." He slides it into the inner pocket of his coat, next to his heart. "I'll keep it with me always."

Steve smiles. "It's a reminder of home."

Bucky returns the smile softly. "You're my home, Steve." Then he straddles Steve's lap and bends down, their lips meeting in a soft kiss that deepens as Steve takes Bucky apart long into the night.

***

Bucky sews up Monty's arm, stitches neat and even as Monty drinks from his flask, wincing.The bullet had only grazed him, luckily, but the cut was deep and Bucky was unanimously volunteered to do the honors, all the men citing his ability to mend clothes and Steve all the times Bucky had patched him up. So here he is, hunger satiated enough that the smell of blood doesn't bother him, tying off the last knot and using his teeth to snip the end.

"There, all good."

Monty cranes his head to see, looking impressed. "Thanks, Sarge."

Bucky grins. "Much better than Jim's stitches, at any rate."

"Hey!" Morita protests. "I dug shrapnel outta your leg, and it healed just fine anyways. Give me some credit."

"Tell it to my scar, Jim. You ain't a seamstress, I can tell you that."

"Fuck you too, Barnes!" But Morita is smiling, reaching out to swat Bucky on the back of the head as he passes.

***

They creep towards the second base, a large isolated factory in Poland near the Baltic. There have been repots of strange shipments going here, and rumor that there's prisoners inside. The team is taking point while the others surround them a ways back, waiting for the signal. Peggy is standing with them, having come from the Allied camp nearby. Steve counts down to three before running forward, the guards around the factory starting to fire as Steve blocks the shots with his shield. Bucky aims his rifle and takes out the guards in the watchtowers even in the darkness, watching as Steve vaults up and over the wall topped with barbed wire and disappears over the other side, gunfire sounding. Bucky swallows down his worry and focuses on making sure all the guards manning guns along the wall are taken out before Steve opens the gates from the inside, the team surging forward. Steve's taken care of most of them, the team picking off the rest as the other soldiers stream in to secure the area.

"Come on!" Steve waves them towards the main base, stealing an energy gun to blast through the door. They're met with more Hydra agents, moving in tight formation as they clear the hallway, moving deeper into the base. There's a split, and Steve hesitates before giving orders.

"Bucky, Agent Carter, with me, the rest of you go that way."

The men nod, splitting off into the left hallway as Steve, Peggy, and Bucky take the right, moving perfectly in sync. They're a good team, Bucky has to admit, though he's still not sure of Peggy's opinion about him. 

They go through a reinforced door into a hallway lined with cells as Bucky's blood runs cold.

"Oh god," Steve says faintly. 

Inside the cells are people, or in some cases what used to be people. They're starving, wounded, some with strange disfigurements and metal coming out of their bodies. Their arms are littered with needle marks, and Bucky has to force down memories of Zola's lab. They barely glance up as they walk past, some muttering or rocking in the corner of their cells and some lying prone on the ground, eyes glassy. 

"We have to-we have to help them," Steve breathes.

Bucky swallows, tearing his gaze from a young girl lying on the floor, glazed eyes boring into his from sunken sockets. "I'm not sure if we can, Steve."

"We have to try. We'll need...medics. Somewhere safe."

Bucky takes a breath and makes his voice firm. "We have to clear the base first."

Peggy nods. "He's right. We'll come back for them."

Steve seems to compose himself, shoulders straightening. "Right. Keep going." He turns to the cells vaguely. "We'll be back. We're going to get you out of here." The prisoners don't even seem to hear him. The silence is eerie.

They move through the door at the end of the cell block, emerging into a room that is undoubtedly where the prisoners were experimented on. There's a table in the center, exactly like the one Bucky had been strapped to, with cuffs and horrible rust-like stains on it, trays and carts of medical equipment and strange pieces of metal and wires. Bucky takes a shaky breath, looking away and tightening his grip on his gun. His moment of distraction costs him though, and he knows it's too late as he senses the people about to pour through the opposite door.

"Steve," he gets out, pushing Steve behind him before the door opens and pain blooms in his right shoulder, sending him to his knees. Steve immediately fights but someone grabs Bucky, dragging him away and putting a gun to his head.

"Surrender or he dies."

Steve freezes, shield in hand, Peggy looking uncertain.

"Don't do it," Bucky chokes out. "Don't-"

The agent presses down on his bullet wound and he cuts off with a small cry. 

"Okay, okay." Steve sets down his shield as Bucky glares at him, Peggy hesitating before dropping her weapon and raising her hands. Agents grab Steve's shield and Peggy's rifle, patting them down for other weapons and putting cuffs on them, Steve's reinforced. 

From the back of the wall of agents a man steps forward, in an officer's uniform. He is not looking at Steve, or even Peggy, but straight at Bucky.

"Sergeant Barnes, I presume?"

Bucky sees Steve and Peggy look at him with equally confused expressions. Hell, Bucky doesn't know what's going on, either, but he has a bad feeling about this.

"Yeah," he replies, still held tightly by agents. "What is it to you?"

The man smiles. "We've been looking for you. You are Zola's only success, correct?"

Bucky feels his blood run cold. "I don't know what you're talking about," he manages. 

"Oh I think you do. We know what you are Sergeant Barnes, what we want to know is  _how,_ and how to make more of you." He nods at the agents. "Take them away."  _This was a trap,_ Bucky realizes. Agents come forward and drag Steve and Peggy from the room, Bucky struggling against the others' hold as he meets Steve's eyes in terror. 

"I'll find a way to get out of this," Steve says. "I won't leave you."

Bucky can only watch as he disappears through another door with Peggy and he is left alone, surrounded by Hydra. The agents start to wrestle him over to the table and he fights back, using his enhanced strength to knock them away. Pain rips through his right shoulder and he stumbles, remembering the bullet wound. They take his moment of weakness to haul him onto the table and strap him down, reinforced cuffs that he can't break. he feels warm wetness spreading through his shoulder but hopes it will heal, especially if he can get more blood. 

A man in a white coat steps up, pulling on surgical gloves as Bucky tries to stay calm and breathe evenly, the memories of Zola's table still vivid. 

"You had to shoot him?" the doctor questions irritably.

"It will give us a good start on estimating his healing capacities," the man replies smoothly. "You'll need to dig out the bullet, though."

The doctor sighs, taking instruments from the cart next to the table and bending over Bucky's shoulder. "Such crude methods." He begins to dig in Bucky's shoulder as Bucky clenches his teeth around a scream, white-hot pain pulsing through the wound. The bullet must be lodged deep, near the back, and the doctor digs deeper as Bucky finally screams, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. The bullet comes out with a ripping sound, clinking into a small bowl on the table as Bucky breathes raggedly. 

"He's bleeding quite a lot," the doctor comments. "Are you sure about the healing factor?"

"We're not sure of anything. But if the stories are true he should have enhanced strength, senses, and healing, and feed on blood."

"Hmm." The doctor pokes at the wound. "How do you heal, Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky clenches his jaw, determined not to give them anything. "James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038," he grits out. 

The doctor sighs and presses his thumb hard into the wound, pain spiking as Bucky screams. "Answer the question, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky pants, body trembling. "James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038."

The doctor presses harder into the wound and Bucky's vision whites out, coming back to his own screams dying away as he gasps for breath. 

"Answer the question."

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut briefly, taking a shuddering breath. "James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038." He can feel the hunger creeping up on him, insistent, reacting to the injury. He's glad that he only fed yesterday, and taken a fair amount, meaning he should have extra reserves.

The doctor peers closer at his shoulder. "The blood flow is stopping already. Remarkable. But we still have no idea how and he's being quite uncooperative. We may need to test out smaller injuries to see the rate." He starts to unbutton Bucky's coat, peeling the sides away and cutting through his sweater to reveal his bare chest. Then he retrieves a scalpel, making a small, shallow cut along Bucky's chest that he barely flinches at. He brings up his wrist, glancing at his watch while he waits. After a few minutes his eyes widen and he smiles slightly.

"Incredible. Two minutes to heal a shallow cut. Use that as our baseline healing rate. Now, Sergeant Barnes, do you know how you heal so quickly?"

"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038."

The doctor presses the scalpel to his skin, cutting into his chest as Bucky clenches his teeth. "Answer the question. It's a simple yes or no."

Bucky glares at him. "James Barnes. Sergeant. 3255-" He's cut off by the scalpel cutting into him again, crossing over the previous line.

"You will answer eventually."

"James Barnes. Sergean-" This cut is deeper, right through the others, drawing a muffled scream from Bucky's lips. He feels warm blood spill over his chest, the hunger sharpening. 

The doctor lowers the knife again, scoring a deep cut across Bucky's chest as he strains against the restraints fruitlessly.

"Interesting. These aren't healing as quickly. Herr Müller, you said the creatures fed on blood?"

"Yes. Zola has been trying to recreate the creatures from the stories using the blood we found along with the Tesseract, but Sergeant Barnes was the only one to survive the injection. Zola's blood is gone, but if Sergeant Barnes is truly turned we could hope to create more."

The doctor nods over Bucky. "I've postulated that the creatures use blood as a source of energy rather than food, and this is what gives them their abilities. It's possible the more blood Sergeant Barnes loses, the slower his healing factor. That to heal any more, he needs to ingest blood."

"I would advise against giving Sergeant Barnes blood. We need him weak and answering questions. The hunger may be torture on it's own."

"Very well, but I don't want him to lose any more blood. Permission to use enhanced interrogation methods?"

"Permission granted. He's in your hands, doctor."

The doctor turns to the table, retrieving a small can with a nozzle and a knife. He turns a dial and flames come out of the nozzle as Bucky's breath hitches. The doctor holds the knife to the flame until it turns orange, Bucky squeezing his eyes closed in terror as he drags the knife over Bucky's chest, the sizzle of burning flesh masked by screams. 

"You will tell us everything we need to know about what you are," the doctor orders. "Do you feed on blood?"

Bucky's lower lip trembles and he takes a shaky breath, eyes squeezed shut. "James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038."

He hears the flame and the knife comes down again over his abdomen, drawing a long scream from Bucky as he thrashes in the restraints, breaths almost sobs. 

"How often do you have to feed?"

"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038," he chokes out.  _Where are the men?_ He prays they're alright, and Steve and Peggy. He might die here, but he needs them to be safe.

This one cuts over his stomach and his vision whites out again as he screams, throat hoarse and hunger clawing at him. 

"How enhanced are your senses?"

He chokes down a sob, feeling his eyes brim with tears. "James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038."

His wrists are becoming bruised from pulling at the restraints, but it pales in comparison to the pain in his chest.

"Do you know why you survived?"

"James Barnes. Sergeant. 3255-"

The knife comes down again. The doctor asks a question. He doesn't even listen. His lips mumble the same thing, over and over, broken only by screams. The hunger intensifies and he feels himself getting weaker and colder, every thought not consumed by pain consumed by hunger. He is-he is drifting, outside his body as he stares up at the chipped ceiling, the doctor's voice fading until only his heartbeat remains, loud in Bucky's ears. He feels the burning cuts but at the same time doesn't, hearing his screams echo off the walls with a sense of detachment, as if watching a film reel. He doesn't know what the doctor is asking anymore, if he's even responding at the right time, just mumbles his name, rank, and serial number over and over when he's not screaming, eyes drifting closed and he is tired, so tired, he wants to go home-

There is someone shaking him and he swims back up to consciousness, not knowing when he'd lost it.

"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038," he mumbles, eyes fluttering. "James-"

Hands shake him again gently. "Sarge. Hey. It's me. You're alright now."

He blinks heavily, a face swimming in his vision. Dum Dum. His eyes are wide and uncharacteristically scared as he looks down at Bucky, face pale and bruised and streaked with dust. More hands work to undo the reinforced cuffs, the figures of the other men swimming in his vision.

"Jesus Christ," someone breathes near him.

Dum Dum looks up. "Get Cap and Carter. I'll stay with him."

There's murmurs of assent and then footsteps retreat, the room still and silent. Dum Dum's hand finds Bucky's neck, feeling his pulse.

"Hey kid," he says softly. "You with me?"

Bucky nods slightly, everything still hazy and muted.

"Good. We're gonna get you out of here. Cap's coming."

"Steve?" Bucky slurs, the only thing registering in his muddled mind.

Dum Dum smiles tightly. "Yeah, Steve's coming. You're gonna be just fine."

Bucky nods slightly, drifting off again as he stares up at the white ceiling with the small chip in it, paint cracked and peeling. He has been staring at it for a while, he thinks. He doesn't know how long.

Running footsteps sound and he feels the instant Steve comes into the room, familiar scent washing over him in waves of comfort. 

"Oh god." Steve's face swims in his vision, hand warm on his shoulder. " _Bucky."_

Bucky blinks heavily up at him, relief flowing through his veins. Steve is here, and he's okay. He has a cut on his cheekbone but Steve is okay. Steve's hand finds his cheek and Bucky turns into it, seeking the warm blood in Steve's wrist.

There's a sound in the distance, like explosions, and Steve's head whips around. "Alright. You guys go on ahead, clear a route. I'll get Bucky."

"You sure, Cap?"

"Positive. Go."

The men jog out of the room as Steve brushes his thumb over Bucky's cheekbone and Bucky blindly tilts his head towards the promise of blood. "Okay-Peggy? What are you still doing here?"

Peggy steps up on the other side of Bucky. "I'm not leaving. You need someone to watch your back while you carry him out."

Steve hesitates. "You really...you really should go." Bucky noses into Steve's wrist, everything distant except for the blood so close.

"I won't."

Steve finally takes a breath. "Okay. Okay. Um, Bucky, I'm sorry, but we have to do this. I don't know when else we'll have a chance. Peggy, you have to promise you won't breathe a word of what you see to anyone."

"I'm not sure I understand. Steve, we need to get out of here."

Steve shakes his head. "Not yet. Trust me." He angles his wrist, pressing it against Bucky's mouth. "Go ahead. Just enough to take the edge off."

Bucky sinks his fangs in, warm blood spilling into his mouth and making everything distant and muted as warmth floods through him. He takes a gulp, then another, before Steve gently tugs his wrist away and he lets go, licking over the wound on instinct to seal it. Steve brushes sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead as Bucky takes a breath, the hunger lessened but the pain re-emerging with fiery agony. 

"I'm sorry, I wish I could give you more right now but we have to go, and I know you don't want anyone finding out. I'm sorry," Steve repeats, sounding broken. He gently maneuvers his arms under Bucky's back and knees, lifting him off the table and into his arms. Bucky's head rests against his chest, Steve's heartbeat fast under his ear.

"You-I-he-he's a  _vampire?"_ Peggy sputters.

"Zola," Steve says grimly. "No time to explain. Let's go." 

He sees Peggy compose herself and heft her gun. "Right. After me."

They follow Peggy out, Bucky fading in and out of consciousness as he jostles in Steve's arms, his entire abdomen burning with agony. He hears explosions and more gunfire and then cool night air meets his face, soothing the cuts and burns on his bare torso, coat hanging open. He senses the other men clustering around, voices swirling in his head as Steve keeps jogging. Eventually he is being set down on something relatively soft, head in Steve's lap. Steve strokes his hair with shaking fingers as he gives out orders.

"Alright, move out. Head for camp."

Bucky senses Dum Dum and Peggy pile into the front seat of the jeep, the vehicle starting with a roar before pulling away. Every time they hit a bump it sends pain flaring through him and he makes a small sound, Steve's hand tightening over Bucky's where he's gripping it. 

"I'm sorry," Steve keeps whispering, fingers stroking Bucky's hair. "I'm so sorry."

 


	6. Chapter 6

He wakes slowly, hurting all over. He groans, cracking open his eyes as brown canvas swims in his vision. Someone moves on his left, leaning over him, and panic takes over as he sucks in a painful breath, limbs locking up. 

"-ucky, it's me, it's just me."

It's Steve's voice, his face swimming in Bucky's vision and he relaxes, exhaling.

"Steve," he rasps, throat raw.

Steve gives him a pained smile as the world comes back into focus around him, Bucky blinking to clear his vision. He's in a tent, laying on a cot with the men all clustered around, looking slightly worse for wear but alive as they give him small smiles.

"Hey Sarge," Dum Dum says. "How are you feeling?"

Bucky grimaces, pain flaring through his torso. "Like someone tried to carve me up like a goddamn turkey," he manages hoarsely.

The men chuckle slightly, Steve's face going relieved as he sits back down next to Bucky. "Yeah. Yeah, they sure did. I'm sorry we didn't get to you fast enough."

Bucky frowns at Steve. "Steve, it's not your fault. You were locked up somewhere, I assume."

"Yeah. Just threw us in a cells. Reinforced. The team had to break Peggy and I out." Steve sighs. "It was a trap."

Dum Dum nods. "Yeah, they caught us by surprise our way, almost had us beat before we managed to blow them to hell. If we'd known what they were doing we'd've tried to come a lot sooner. We figured you guys were alright till we, you know, heard the-" he cuts off, clearing his throat. "Anyways, sorry Sarge. The whole mission was a shit-show."

"Hey, at least you never have to deal with us again," Morita says with forced cheer. "Went out with a bang."

Bucky frowns. "What?"

The men glance at each other. "You, uh, you can go home," Steve says, looking a mix of miserable and happy. "Honorable discharge."

Bucky stares at him. "The _hell_ I am. Are you going home?"

"Uh, no, of course not."

"Then I ain't either, pal." Bucky glares at him, daring him to contradict him.

Steve swallows. "Buck, you just-you just got tortured. You're wounded."

"So? That didn't stop me before."

Steve flinches minutely. "I think twice is enough." His voice is rough. "Look, they're offering you a discharge. You should take it."

Bucky glares. "I didn't take it last time and I sure as hell ain't taking it this time. If they wanna get rid of me they're gonna have to drag me outta here themselves."

Steve's jaw tightens. "Buck-"

"No."

"Come on-"

"No."

Steve sighs. "Are you sure?"

Bucky meets Steve's eyes, maintaining his facade. "Yes." He needs Steve to let this go, before he crumbles and takes the discharge. He wants to go home, god does he want to, but he has to stay for Steve. Steve is his home.

Steve searches his eyes before nodding. "Fine. But you're not going anywhere until you're completely healed."

"Yes, Ma."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Jerk."

Dum Dum clears his throat. "So, now that we've gotten that outta the way..."

"The Colonel wants to debrief with you," Monty says. "Make sure you didn't spill SSR secrets, whatever." He winces. "Sorry. I wouldn't blame you if you did."

Bucky grimaces. "It's fine. I understand. But they got nothing from me." He hesitates. "You destroyed the base, right?" He doesn't want any notes they have on him or blood they might have taken when he was out to linger.

They nod. "Rubble," Dernier says proudly.

"And the-the prisoners?"

Their faces fall and Steve looks guilty. "They uh, they killed them, when they knew we were getting close," Gabe says softly. "Might've been kinder, anyway."

Bucky nods. "Yeah." His voice is rough. "Yeah."

The men sit with him a while before the Colonel walks in, Peggy in tow.

"Gentlemen. Sergeant Barnes," Colonel Phillips says brusquely. "We're gonna need a private word."

Steve squeezes Bucky's shoulder and they file out, leaving them alone.

"How are you feeling?" Peggy asks gently. She's studying him carefully, and Bucky remembers vaguely her finding out what he is.

"Alright, considering," he says. 

She nods. "That's good. The men have informed you that you're being honorably discharged?"

Bucky clears his throat. "I informed the men that I wouldn't be taking the discharge."

Peggy blinks, looking taken aback. "You want to stay?"

"Yes."

"Son, think carefully about your decision," Colonel Phillips says, eyes uncharacteristically soft. "You have the chance to go home. Take it."

Bucky shakes his head. "I'm sorry sir, but I must decline."

Colonel Phillips sighs, looking up at the roof of the tent. "Alright then. As long as you're fit for duty I'll allow it."

Peggy still looks stunned, but recovers herself quickly. "Alright, we're going to need to know what Hydra asked you, and if you gave any information."

Bucky hesitates. He can't say what they really were after, or there's worse coming his way than an honorable discharge for sure. "Just...basic questions," he says vaguely. "Our plans. Captain America's weaknesses. Any information I could give them." He swallows. "I didn't give them anything."

Peggy nods, narrowing her eyes at him. He meets them evenly and she seems to relax, understanding flitting through her gaze. "Alright. Thank you, Sergeant Barnes. You've gone above and beyond the line of duty time and time again. I am honored to serve at your side." He hears the unspoken message.  _I have your back._ She will not tell.

He nods. "Thank you, Agent Carter."

"Please." She smiles. "Call me Peggy."

***

The men file back in when Colonel Phillips and Peggy leave, resuming their places around his bed. Bucky's tired and his torso throbs, hunger still pressing at him insistently as his body tries to heal. 

"So, what's next?" he croaks.

"Flying back to France," Steve replies. "To the major base there in Allied territory. They're giving us a bit of a break. Then we'll help out the front a bit in France and Italy before hitting the Hydra base in Greece."

Bucky nods. "Sounds good. I could do with a bit of a break," he says wryly.

"Hell Barnes, they tried to give you a permanent break and you said no," Dum Dum huffs. "I swear to god, kid, you're gonna give me grey hair. This is twice you've been laid up, three times you've been through hell. You keep this up and you'll be goin' home all stitched together."

"So long as it's not Jim's stitches," Bucky replies with a tired grin.

They all laugh, though it hurts Bucky's injuries and feels more forced than anything. He hasn't truly processed what had happened yet but he feels it looming over him like a dark cloud, ready to descend the moment Bucky looks at it directly. He keeps it carefully tucked away, putting on an easy facade as he jokes and laughs, the way he's always done his whole life. If he just doesn't think about it, pushes it down, maybe it won't bother him. If he fakes it hard enough maybe he'll actually be okay.

***

A nurse comes in and shoos the men away around evening, Bucky swallowing down the panic that rises as she bends over to check his bandages. His right shoulder and whole torso are bandaged from chest to stomach and as she peels away the layers of gauze he feels faint nausea rise in his throat at the sight. His torso is a mess of knife slashes and burns, skin red and raw and wounds oozing blood and clear substance, some he doesn't even remember getting. He can't see the gunshot wound in his shoulder very well, but he's seen enough of them to guess. The nurse is stoic, cleaning the wounds gently and pouring sulfa powder over them to stave off infection as Bucky stares at the canvas ceiling and tries to breathe. 

"You alright there?" the nurse questions softly as she redoes the dressings.

He nods. "Fine, ma'm."

"I'm going to give you another shot of morphine to take the edge off."

He swallows and nods as she takes out the needle, trying to shove the memories of Zola back down. She injects it into his upper arm, Bucky focusing on breathing evenly and reminding himself he's not in that godforsaken lab.

"Alright, that should kick in within the hour. You should have something to eat and drink." She sets a tray down on the small table by the bed, propping him up slightly on pillows as he winces at the tug on his stomach muscles. He's able to hold the cup in his left hand and drink shakily, and eats the food she sets of his lap even though he knows it will do nothing for him. Finally the nurse helps him lay flat and collects everything again, shooting him a small smile.

"I'll be back tomorrow to check on you. Have a good night, Sergeant Barnes."

"You too, ma'm," he manages to choke out, not realizing how tense he's been until she leaves and he relaxes into the bed, eyes slipping closed with exhaustion. 

***

He jerks awake, gasping for breath. It takes him a few seconds before he realizes he's in the tent, and not strapped down to the table in that lab. He exhales, letting his head drop back to the pillow as he squeezes his eyes shut. Goddamnit. He'd thought he was getting over Zola, but now his head is even more fucked-up.  _Goddamn shit show is what it is,_ he thinks.  _Pull yourself together, Barnes._

Early morning light is peeking in the tent but the camp sounds fairly quiet, only a few people up. Footsteps sound and Peggy ducks into his tent, Bucky blinking in surprise.

"Agent-I mean, Peggy."

"Good morning." She steps closer to the bed, sinking into the chair next to it and eyes wary as she assesses Bucky. "I wanted to...discuss what I saw. At the base."

"Oh." He swallows. "You know."

"I'm not going to tell anyone. But am I correct in thinking that that was the real reason they took you? It was obviously a trap from the start, but not for us like everyone believes. For you."

He nods. "They want to make more. Figure out how I work. I don't know if they took any blood, but I didn't tell them anything."

She smiles softly. "I thought not. You're a brave man, Sergeant Barnes."

"Bucky, please."

She cocks her head. "I'll compromise. James."

"That's fine."

"So, James, it was Zola that did this to you?"

"Yeah. Apparently I was the only one to survive. They kept talking about stories of creatures and blood they took from where they found the...tesseract?"

Peggy stiffens. "The Tesseract? That's Hydra's secret weapon. The SSR has been keeping tabs on it for years."

He goes to shrug but thinks better of it. "I don't know. They didn't seem to know much, were just going on stories." He racks his memory. "But they did say Zola's blood is gone, and if I'm the only one..."

"Then we're safe," Peggy finishes. "They can't make any more. Can I ask...how does it, well, work? You're a...vampire? It sounds quite ridiculous out loud."

He chuckles slightly. "Yeah, I thought I was going crazy. But yeah, I just...run on blood. Everything else is pretty much the same, except I don't need to eat. And if I get hurt, I heal fast but only if I get blood. My senses are better, too."

Peggy frowns. "So all this-" She waves a hand at his midsection. "-you could heal it quickly?"

"Maybe a few hours, if I had lots of blood. But that would be suspicious."

"Definitely." Peggy pauses. "I hate to ask, but you're not...hurting anyone, are you?"

He shakes his head. "No. I only feed off of Steve, and I have control over it. I'm not gonna go on a murder spree." He smiles slightly.

She chuckles. "Well, good to know. I had to make sure. I'm sorry you have to be in so much pain when you could be healed in a matter of hours. It's not right."

"Well, I think it would be a lot worse if people found out."

"True. At least let yourself heal at a comfortable pace. I think your team will look the other way, and Steve already knows."

"Yeah." He worries at his lip. "I think the team already suspects. Not...that, but that Zola did something. I overheard them, when I hurt my leg."

"You seem to get hurt more than anyone, James," Peggy says softly.

Bucky laughs bitterly. "Just my luck I guess. Don't exactly think God's on my side anymore."

Peggy meets his eyes gently. "You're a good man, James Barnes. Don't forget that."

***

He spends a few days in the tent, injuries healing slowly and incredibly painful as the morphine does nothing for him, Steve giving him just enough blood each night to keep him stable. Steve and the team are there most of the time, and Bucky can tell they're trying to keep him company and make sure he's okay, catching the worried looks they often trade when they think he's not looking. Finally they declare him stable to move and take him by stretcher to a small plane that they all pile into, Howard Stark in the pilot's seat and Peggy in the co-pilot's. It's a long flight around enemy airspace and Bucky falls asleep halfway in to the sounds of the men talking amongst themselves, the low chatter soothing. He's woken when they land, Steve and Dum Dum carrying the stretcher out and towards the large base in France. They're given their own rooms on the first floor of the inn set aside for soldiers, Steve insisting on bunking with Bucky to 'keep an eye on his injuries.' No one questions it, setting up two beds and assigning a nurse from the medical ward to look after him. Perks of being Captain America's right hand, Bucky thinks. If he were a normal soldier he'd be in the medical ward with everyone else, listening to the groans of the wounded and surrounded by the smell of blood, but instead he gets a comfortable bed and a quiet room with Steve, a few weeks for them to do nothing but rest. 

The men keep him company more often than not, coming in shifts to smoke a cigarette with him and tell him all about their adventures in the city. Dernier is showing them all around, happy to be back in his home country, and there's many tales of drunken escapades and pretty girls that Bucky listens to indulgently. Peggy sits with him occasionally, too, Bucky finding he likes her more and more despite the slight resentment for stealing Steve's heart.

"You love him, don't you," she says one day, not a question.

"I-what-I don't, he's-he's my friend-"

She cuts him off gently. "It's alright. I understand. That's why you keep turning down discharges. You can't leave him."

He swallows and nods. "I've been protecting him my whole life. There's nothing on this earth that could stop me from doing that, 'sides death. Maybe not even then."

Peggy slides her hand into his. "He loves you too, I can see it in his eyes whenever he looks at you. It would kill him to lose you."

"I know." He silent for a moment. "But it'd kill me more to lose him. And he loves you too, I think." He looks up at Peggy, meeting her eyes. "Promise me, if I die, that you'll look after him. He needs someone like you. He'll go and get himself killed or something stupid like that otherwise."

Peggy hesitates before nodding, squeezing his hand. "I promise."

***

_March 10, 1944_

_Bucky,_

_Happy Birthday! I know you won't get this for a while but I wanted to say it. I hope you did something to celebrate. I miss you like crazy and worry about you. Are you alright? Even Ma thought her letter seemed off, and you wrote a lot more stuff to me. I can't even imagine what it must be like over there. Just remember you're a good person, Bucky, whatever you've done. You're fighting for what's right. But I feel the same way about the age. I keep imagining you as this slightly awkward older brother with chubby cheeks and messy hair but you're so much older now. I think I'd recognize you anywhere though, Bucky, no matter what. You're still my Bucky. You should definitely go back to college, you're brilliant. I think you could do anything. And when you and Steve get back you should go to the Grand Canyon, just the two of you. You're right, there's so much to do and what seems like so little time. But you will have time, Bucky. You'll have the rest of your life, a long life, with Steve, even if he doesn't really age. God, that's weird to think about. But I hope you're doing okay and the weather is better. I'm always thinking of you. Stay safe._

_Love,_

_Becca_

He writes his response in the middle of the night, unable to sleep after nightmares had dragged him awake. Steve is still sleeping, unaware of Bucky's turmoil, and Bucky uses the light from the moon streaming through the window to scratch out his reply in shaky letters.

_March 25, 1944_

_Becca,_

_I'm ~~notokay~~ safe. I got captured again, but they got me out. We're in France while I heal. They gave me medals, for 'distinguished service' and being wounded in the line of duty, so that's great, I guess. God, I don't know what to write. It's the middle of the night, and I can't sleep. I haven't been able to sleep. ~~I'm just-~~ I'm not alright, Becs. I'm not. I keep trying to pretend I am but I don't know how much longer I can do this. I turned down another goddamn honorable discharge and right now I don't even know why. I just want to go home. No, I know why, it's Steve, but here's a secret: It was the hardest decision of my life. It wasn't a decision at all, really, I knew I couldn't leave Steve, but having everyone try to convince me to go home and to look them in the eye and say 'no' was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I want to go home. I remember that was the last thought I had as they were torturing me before I blacked out. That I just wanted to go home. Shit, I didn't mean to write this. You shouldn't have to hear these things. I'm a goddamn mess, Becs. I'm sorry. I'm supposed to be the big brother and protect you instead of blabbing all my dark secrets. Forgive me. I guess I'm just tired. I hope you're doing alright. I miss you so much._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

***

His injuries heal slowly but surely, turning into scars that itch and pull. His shoulder miraculously heals with minimal damage, his range of motion as good as before, and if his injuries are healing a little faster than a normal person no one says anything. He wakes most nights gasping, Steve stroking his hair until he drops off to sleep again. Around the second week, when he can dress without too much pain, he's made to put on his dress uniform and attend a ceremony to receive medals, the distinguished service cross and purple heart added to the growing accolades on his uniform. They don't really mean anything to him. He's not here for medals. He's here to protect Steve. But the men all have proud glints in their eyes and Steve looks slightly misty, clearing his throat as he squeezes Bucky's shoulder. 

"Well, looks like you're a war hero," he says. "Who woulda thought."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Punk."

"Jerk."

There's photographs and clips of him, of course, whenever he's around the base, film crews omnipresent because of Steve's presence, and he knows from the small mirror in the washroom that he looks like hell. There's dark circles under eyes and he's too pale, the rationing of blood from Steve an exercise in slow torture. He tries to look at his reflection as little as possible when he shaves, not wanting to see the haunted eyes that gaze back at him. He no longer obsesses over his hair, keeping it short but messy strands escaping to fall over his forehead more often than not, and he knows he has a permanent five-o'clock shadow now. He can't bring himself to care.

After three weeks he's climbing the walls with boredom and the restless anxiety that won't leave him alone, making him jump at slight sounds and flinch whenever anyone touches him. Steve seems cautious around him, like he's made of glass, and Bucky just wishes they could get back to their old dynamic, that he could just forget this whole thing and move on. When his wounds are healed Steve finally lets him feed to his heart's content, relief flowing through him and the lingering pain and stiffness dissipating. He panics slightly when Steve presses him down into the mattress, and though Bucky insists he's fine the mood is ruined and Bucky spends the rest of the night in the other bed, staring up at the ceiling as shame and anger wash over him. Steve doesn't try to touch him again and Bucky pulls back further, wrapping his facade around him like a shield. He tells no one what he's feeling, except what he lets slip to Becca in letters. He can tell Steve is worried about him and hopelessly lost, trying ineffectually to get Bucky to talk, but Steve's always been allergic to feelings and he eventually gives up, leaving Bucky to his silence and distance. 

The nurse examines him and he's made to prove he's fit for duty, Bucky pulling himself together and impressing even himself with the facade he manages until he's finally cleared and they start gearing up for their next mission. His coat has been washed and mended and it feels good to put it back on, like a permanent facade he can hide behind. His scars are all hidden under the uniform, the only evidence to give away that fact that he's not alright the circles under his eyes, but they are normal during a war and no one comments. They head out, moving through France, their presence lifting the morale of the units they pass. They've started calling them the Howling Commandos, they learn, and the name spreads like wildfire. Peggy is behind at base to coordinate their movements, but she bids Steve and Bucky a warm goodbye and tells them to be safe.

They stay in towns or camp in the woods, running small missions to take out German and Hydra forces they encounter. The men seem determined to keep him safely away from the main action, always posting him as their marksman somewhere out of reach. They don't say anything, but Bucky knows they worry and doesn't resist, because resisting would mean confronting the reason for it in the first place and he can't do that. He shoves the memories and the fear deep inside, locked tightly away, focusing on nothing but the mission and ensuring everyone is safe, especially Steve. If he takes more watches and doesn't wake the others, not able to sleep, then no one says anything as long as he is functional. 

He's sitting on watch one night, flipping his knife between his fingers with a cigarette between his lips and watching the firelight play off the blade with morbid fascination, when he senses Dum Dum get up and settle next to him, withdrawing his own cigarette. He takes a couple draws as they sit there in silence, the popping and crackling of the fire the only sound. 

"You know," Dum Dum starts quietly, "My pops was in the Great War. Tough son of a bitch. When he came home he had a bunch of medals and a permanent limp, and they called him a war hero, but he never would talk about anythin' that happened over there. Never was the same, either." Bucky takes another drag of his cigarette, grateful Dum Dum isn't looking at him to see the shake of his hand. "He used to be a real friendly guy, always ready with a slap on the back and a grin, but after the war he could barely look you in the eye, much less crack a smile. Started drinkin', too. Got real angry over little things, punched a couple holes in our walls. Used to wake up screamin', and he clocked my Ma so hard in the face one morning when she tried to wake him that he slept on the couch the rest of his life. He was a good man, but the war changed him."

There's a moment of silence and Bucky swallows, taking another unsteady drag of his cigarette. "What happened to him?"

"Drank himself to death when I was barely nineteen." Dum Dum exhales a plume of smoke. A warm hand claps Bucky on the shoulder and he stifles his flinch, Dum Dum turning to look at him. "Look kid, us guys? We all got your back. But I ain't letting you go the same way as my old man." He releases Bucky's shoulder, facing forwards again as he takes a pull from his cigarette. "You're a damn good man, Barnes. A damn good soldier. Don't lose sight of that."

***

He sees the shot rip through Steve's shoulder and his vision goes red, reloading his rifle with superhuman speed as he aims and fires, aims and fires, dropping the Hydra agents around him like flies. His rifle clicks empty and then he's running down the hill, withdrawing his pistol as he plows through the agents with ruthless determination, barely stopping to think as he shoots until his pistol clicks empty. He flips it around and uses it to smash skulls unfeeling as he fights his way to Steve, stalking forward with predatory grace. An agent knocks the pistol out of his hand and he draws his knife, whirling and slashing with a feral snarl, lip curled over his sharpened teeth as their eyes fill with fear and they go down one by one. There's only a few left, the men fighting the last with fists and guns and Steve nursing his injured shoulder as he tries to keep swinging his shield with the left. One sneaks up behind Steve and Bucky throws his knife, embedding it into the agent's throat. The men all stop and stare, breathing heavily, the agents dead around them. Bucky senses one last one come up behind him and whirls, grabbing him by the chin and back of the head and breaking his neck with a sharp crack before letting him slump to the ground.

"Holy shit," Morita breathes. The men are all staring at him with wide eyes but Bucky ignores them, making a beeline for Steve, first stopping to wrench his knife out of the dead agent's throat and wipe it on his clothes before shoving it back in it's holster. He grabs Steve and pats over the wound, assessing the damage as Steve just stares at him, trying to bat his hands away weakly.

"Buck, I'm fine."

"The hell you are," Bucky growls. He's shaking, he realizes, with adrenaline and fear and something else, blood burning and hunger sharp. He grabs Steve, hauling him forward as Steve protests. "Come on. We're getting somewhere safe."

He marches them past the men, barely sparing them a glance, every thought consumed with Steve's safety. He hears them follow, muttering indistinctly among themselves as Bucky herds Steve back to camp and sits him down, pulling out the small medical kit in his pack and starting to undo Steve's uniform with shaking fingers. Steve's hand on his wrist stops him and he looks up to see Steve's eyes full of hesitant concern. 

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Bucky grits out. "You're the one who got shot, you goddamn idiot." He pushes Steve's hand away and finally gets his uniform open, prodding at the wound as Steve winces in pain. The bullet is still lodged in his shoulder but not too deep, the uniform having slowed the impact. Bucky grabs the tweezers from his pack and starts to fish it out.

"Ow, fuck," Steve hisses. Bucky ignores him, digging deeper as Steve yelps. "Jesus Buck, you could be a little more gentle."

"This is what you get for getting shot," Bucky spits out angrily. He pulls the bullet out, tucking it in his pocket as he takes out a dressing and packs the wound, taping it down. "There, all done. You'll live." He gets up abruptly, stalking away to the other end of camp where he sinks down against a tree, pulling out a cigarette and lighter with bloodstained hands that shake as he fumbles to click the lighter. "Goddamnit!" 

A lighter clicks in front of him and he looks up to see Morita holding it out. "Need a light?"

Bucky scowls but nods, letting Morita light his cigarette and taking a draw, head thunking back against the tree. Morita settles next to him, lighting his own cigarette. They sit there in silence for a minute as Bucky's breaths even, the familiar motions of smoking helping to settle him even if the nicotine does nothing for him nowadays.

"So," Morita finally says. "You're a pretty terrifying son of a bitch."

Bucky snorts but doesn't reply.

"They say it takes what, a thousand pounds a force to snap someone's neck?"

Bucky shrugs.

Morita hesitates. "If, theoretically, Zola did something to you..."

"Theoretically," Bucky says flatly.

"Right, theoretically. _If_ he did, you know we-we wouldn't say anything, right?"

Bucky takes another drag of the cigarette. "Sure." He pauses, voice softening to almost a whisper. "Thanks."

They sit there for a while, smoking in silence as Bucky finally cleans the blood off his hands with Morita's canteen. Finally, when their cigarettes are ash Bucky gets up, offering a hand to Morita. They return to camp, the commandos all sitting around the fire and talking loudly. They quiet when they appear, Steve looking up at Bucky with a hesitant expression tinged with hurt. Bucky sighs before jerking his head, Steve getting up and following him as the commandos start talking again in loud voices, unsubtly giving them privacy. Once they're well away Bucky stops, an awkward silence falling.

"You okay?" Bucky finally asks roughly, nodding to Steve's shoulder.

Steve nods. "Yeah, I'm fine. You?"

"I'm fi-" Bucky cuts off, the lie having slipped from his lips easily. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "I don't fucking know, Steve."

Steve steps closer,  carefully raising a hand to Bucky's cheek. Bucky feels all the pent-up anger drain away as he sighs and turns his head into Steve's hand, eyes slipping closed. 

"I'm sorry," Steve whispers. "I don't know what to do."

Bucky wraps a hand around Steve's wrist gently, rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin. "Me neither." He chuckles, opening his eyes to meet Steve's fully for the first time in weeks. "We're just a couple'a goddamn train-wrecks, aren't we?"

Steve smiles slightly, eyes searching Bucky's. "Maybe. We've never been very good at communication. Or feelings."

"You can say that again." They chuckle before falling silent, Bucky losing himself in Steve's eyes. "C'mere," he whispers, drawing Steve into a tight hug and burying his face in his shoulder. "I missed you," he mumbles.

He feels Steve shake under him. "I missed you too."

Hidden in Steve's shoulder, away from his piercing eyes, Bucky has the courage to actually say what he feels. "I saw you get shot," he rasps, "and it was the worst feeling in the world. I just...went away. Didn't even think, fucking slaughtered all those agents just to get to you. I was so scared, Steve. I was angry cause I was scared. I can't lose you."

Steve's arms tighten around him. "I know. I know, Buck." He pulls back to put his hands on Bucky's face again, lips meeting in a searing kiss for the first time in weeks. Then they're scrabbling frantically, needing to get as close to each other as possible, to wash away the weeks of distance and assure each other that they're here and safe. Bucky slams Steve against a tree, mindful of his healing shoulder, hands unbuckling belts as they pant into each other's mouths. Bucky pulls the high collar of Steve's uniform down and sinks his teeth into his throat as they reach their climax, Steve coming breathlessly under him. If they're a little flushed and debauched when they return to camp no one says a word, and Bucky catches the commandos' relieved glances as he and Steve sink down next to each other, shoulders pressed together.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_May 16, 1944_

_Becca,_

_We're still in France, pushing at the Hydra lines. You shoulda seen the size of the tank we blew up in this one town, I think it was bigger than Steve and I's whole tenement back in Brooklyn. Of course, Steve had to jump off of it as it was exploding, because he's an idiot, but that was the plan. God, keeping him safe is a nightmare. The Commandos have started calling me 'Mama Bear Barnes,' which is the worst nickname in history but I can't really refute it. I know I've got a protective streak a mile wide, especially when it comes to Steve. Anyway, how's it going back there? You still working in the factory? I miss you more every day. Ma sounds okay in her letters but I know she worries so make sure she really is, alright? I want to know everything that's going on back home. Keep your head up, little sis, I'll be home soon._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

***

"Wait, are you like...what's the word? When you can use both hands equally well?" Morita questions.

"Ambidextrous," Bucky supplies, flipping the knife between hands. "And yeah, kinda. I started writing with my left hand when I was a kid but the nuns tied it behind my back or smacked it with a ruler so I learned to use my right hand. Now they're both pretty even. I can shoot with either one."

"That's handy," Monty comments. 

"I feel like everyone should be ambidextrous," Gabe says. "I mean, come on, why do we have one dominant hand? Think of how much we could do with two."

Dum Dum chuckles. "Yeah, personally, my left hand is shit. Can't do anything."

Morita nods. "Same here."

Bucky grins, tossing the knife between hands. "I'm just better than all you lot."

"Hey!"

***

It's June sixth and they're pouring onto the beaches of Normandy, sloshing through the water as gunfire and explosions ring in their ears, one of the bravest photographers Bucky's ever seen named Capa keeping his camera steady as the wind buffets them and waves crash over the shore, chaos reigning. Men fall around them but Bucky keeps his eyes trained on Steve, who's blocking bullets with his shield as they take point. He and Steve have been the only ones to escape the seasickness that had befallen all the men from the harsh waves, and the smell of vomit is still strong in Bucky's nose. Screams ring in their ears as German fire picks off soldiers, many falling into the water and more floating face down, flotation packs inflated on their backs. Shells explode near them, sending shrapnel spinning in all directions and tearing men apart. They take cover by the wooden barricades, Bucky dragging wounded men up as waves threaten to drown them and gunfire strafes them all around, men standing next to him one moment falling the next, a soldier exploding into pieces in front of him as a shell hits. There are more soldiers staggering around in various stages of shock, one holding his severed arm in his hand as he walks forward blindly until bullets rip through him and he falls, dead.  There's screams and yelling, no one able to hear orders in the chaos and men simply pressing forward relentlessly as the Germans pick them off from the towers. Steve leading the charge with shield raised, emboldening the few men who make it through the heavy bombardment, stepping over corpses and screaming soldiers with grim determination. Finally they reach the hill underneath one tower, taking cover as they regroup. Monty's gritting his teeth against a bullet in his side and Bucky doesn't think before licking his hand and pressing it against the wound as Monty groans. 

"What the bloody hell, Sarge!"

"Trust me," Bucky breathes, vision picking up the shimmery seal his spit makes over the wound, starting to heal it. 

Steve lands heavily next to Bucky, uniform smeared with dirt and breathing slightly elevated. "Ready?"

"What's the plan?"

"Up and over."

Bucky takes a deep breath. "Ready."

"On me!" Steve shouts, lurching up and over the small hill through the barbed wire towards the tower as gunshots rain down. The men follow him, clustering around the base of the tower and out of reach of fire. Steve glances around to the other tower further up on the hill. "Buck, think you can take them out?"

Bucky nods grimly, crawling out onto the rocks and taking aim as Steve shields him. He calculates the shot, breathes in, and fires once, twice, three times, taking out the marksmen in the tower and destroying the sandbags shielding them. Then they're running, all the forces pouring across the beach as they head up the hill over the base and inland, Dernier lobbing a grenade into the tower and the whole thing going up in flames. They keep going inland, Germans in the trenches starting to surrender as shells continue to fall and they're strafed by bullets, flames licking everywhere and smoke and dust clogging the air. 

The day blurs, explosions and gunfire and screams all melding together into a torrent of misery. There's too many wounded, and Bucky knows the worst are laying back at the beach but there's nothing they can do. They have to step over men crying out for help, knowing it's too late for them and they can't afford to stop. Bucky helps where he can, pausing to direct combat medics towards someone savable or put pressure on a wound until they arrive, speaking in a soothing tone as they cry and grip his hand, some begging for their mothers. When no one's looking he surreptitiously spits on his hand and presses it to wounds, murmuring a prayer. By the end of the day he feels numb, barely more than a walking automaton, dust and shrapnel clinging to his jacket and hands smeared with blood. They take cover in a trench for the night, quickly assessing their injuries. Monty's bullet wound is healing and hadn't hit anything major, none of them bringing up what Bucky had done to enhance his healing. He pulls shrapnel out of Dum Dum's neck and bandages it while Morita treats a bullet graze on Dernier's arm, his own leg bandaged from a piece of shrapnel. Gabe is remarkably unscathed and had saved their communications device, radioing in for reinforcements. Steve is relatively unharmed as well, uniform thankfully protecting him from the worst and only a couple bullet grazes on his legs where the shield didn't cover. He settles next to Bucky in the trench, shoulders pressed together, none of them speaking as the earth shakes over their heads. 

***

Less than a week later the beach is fully secured, more troops and vehicles and equipment landing as they continue to move across the Normandy countryside, rife with marshes and dense hedgerows that slow their progress. Each day is long and grueling, the nights offering no respite from the continued attacks. They're all exhausted but they keep going, their presence and especially Steve's spurring the other soldiers on. They take shelter in hedgerows and abandoned towns and barns, tanks crawling along the dirt roads with them. It's hard to find a moment alone and they have to be cautious, Bucky and Steve getting good at Bucky feeding from Steve's wrist in under a minute. 

They're in the hayloft of an abandoned barn, only Bucky and Steve awake. Bucky's staring into the distance, mind blank and numb. It happens often, now. He just gets lost in his head; goes numb and feels nothing, like he isn't even real, only brought back by the Commandos shaking his shoulder with thinly veiled worry.

Steve nudges him. "Hey. Buck, you okay?" he whispers.

Bucky blinks slowly, trying to find his way through the heavy fog. "Fine."

"Bucky." Steve's voice is tinged with exasperation but still quiet so as not to wake the others. "I thought we talked about this."

Bucky scrubs a hand over his face, finally coming back to reality. "What do you want from me, Steve?" he rasps.

"I just want you to talk to me."

Bucky shakes his head, closing his eyes. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because....because if I do, I think I'll fall apart," he whispers, feeling a tear slip down his face. "If I talk about it, it'll make it real and it won't stop, I just want it to stop, I can't-"

"Alright." Steve is pulling him in, Bucky's face pressed to his shoulder as his breath hitches with sobs. A hand strokes through his hair and down his back, rubbing in circles like Bucky used to do for Steve when he had an asthma attack. Bucky cries for the first time in months, maybe even years, dampening Steve's uniform with quiet tears as Steve keeps rubbing soothing circles and holds him tight, Bucky clinging on as if Steve is the only real thing he knows.

***

On July fourth the French villagers in Grandcamp celebrate independence day with them, the first village to be liberated. Bucky slings an arm around Steve's shoulders, speaking in his ear.

"Happy Birthday, punk."

Steve grins, leaning into him. "Thanks, jerk."

***

On July 14, Bastille Day, the French are finally able to openly celebrate. There's ceremonies, soldiers receiving medals, and French villagers hold memorials in their cemeteries for the dead while others play a game of football against British soldiers. The kids love Captain America, crowding around the Commandos and offering flowers and excited squeals. One little girl approaches Bucky shyly, small flower in hand. Bucky crouches down, giving her a soft smile. 

"C'est beau." _That's beautiful._

Her face lights up and she comes closer, Bucky holding still as she tucks the flower into a button on his uniform, nodding solemnly. "Merci de nous avoir sauvé."  _Thank you for saving us._

Bucky brushes the tip of her nose with a finger, remembering doing this to Becca with a pang. "Pour toi? N'importe quoi. Quel est ton nom?"  _For you? Anything. What is your name?_

The girl giggles. "Isabelle."

He smiles. "Je m'appelle Bucky."

***

There's many photos as they move through France, liberating villages. Captain America, surrounded by grateful French women, Dernier conversing rapidly with fellow French Underground, a girl reaching up to touch Dum Dum's bowler hat, Bucky crouching down to coax a little girl out of her hiding spot, all of them helping to clear away barbed wire from fields so the villagers can harvest food, so many little moments captured by the camera for posterity. The French refugees welcome them with open arms, the Allies giving them food and medical care and helping them find shelter after the destruction and suffering the Germans had caused during the occupation. It feels good, to be helping people, though the dead still number the streets and every starving, injured villager is just another reminder of the war. 

By August 25 France is theirs, the Allies reaching the Seine and Paris liberated. The Allied forces prepare to enter Germany and meet up with Soviet troops moving in from the east, but the Commandos split off to continue down through southern France and eventually to Greece. The going is fairly easy, squarely in Allied territory through France, and they stop back at the base in the south where Peggy greets them warmly, all of them reveling in real showers and soft beds. 

Bucky flops down on the bed beside Steve, groaning. "I actually feel clean. It's amazing."

Steve chuckles. "You were about ready to kill Dum Dum. Said his socks were a chemical weapon."

"Shoulda used them against the Nazis," Bucky grumbles. "Woulda taken them out in seconds."

They lay there a minute before Steve turns on his side, looking at Bucky. "This is the first time we've actually been alone in months."

Bucky turns his head to look at Steve, a small smile curving his lips. "Yeah? Whaddya say we take advantage of it?"

Steve gives an answering smirk and Bucky rolls on top of him, settling between his legs as he kisses him softly, wanting to savor the moment. Then he peels Steve out of his undershirt, hands running up and down his muscled chest as he plants kisses down his jaw. He moves down, kissing a line down Steve's abdomen before unbuttoning his pants and pressing Steve's hip down as he begins to take him apart. When he's close he crawls back up, Steve tugging at his own clothes. Bucky takes off his shirt before pausing, uncomfortable with the scars littering his torso. Steve traces a finger over them and he shivers, looking down at Steve warily.

"Okay?" Steve asks softly.

Bucky swallows and nods. "Fine."

Steve's hands trail down and unbutton his pants, helping him shove them off as Bucky leans down to kiss Steve again with no layers between them. Steve doesn't try to roll them over, no doubt remembering the last time so many months ago, and Bucky feels a mixture of gratitude and annoyance that Steve's treating him so carefully. They've never been careful with each other, always rough and aggressive and constantly battling, and the softness with which Steve treats him now is jarring but welcome. They've had too much of violence. Bucky takes Steve apart slowly and gently, no desperate rush like usual, and when he sinks his fangs in it is minutes before they finally reach their climax, Steve's breath ghosting in Bucky's ear. Afterwards they lay curled together, Steve pressed against Bucky's back with his arms around him. They've never lain like this before but it is welcome now, Bucky drifting off feeling safe and warm in Steve's embrace. 

***

_September 1, 1944_

_Becca,_

_I think the war will be over soon. The Allies have taken France and are moving into Germany, and the Soviets are moving from the other side. I don't think it'll be long now before Germany surrenders. It means I'll be home soon, something that doesn't even feel imaginable. It seems like it's been a lifetime since I left. I'm not the same person anymore, and I don't know what it'll be like to go home finally. I'm not sure I ever really can. But I'll try. For you and Ma and Steve I'll try. God, I want to go home. This war has sucked the life outta me, Becs. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep going. The things I've seen, the things I've done, there's no escaping them. I've seen so much death, just meaningless death, and sometimes I wonder what we're doing here. Why are we fighting? But then I remember the Nazis, and Hydra, and what they've done, and I know we have to fight. It's the right thing to do, as Steve would say. But I don't want to fight. And maybe that makes me a coward, but it's true. I don't want to fight. I'm so tired. I just want to go home. I want Steve to be safe. I'd do anything to keep Steve safe and by God that's what I'll do till the end of me. He's the only reason I keep fighting. Not for my country, no, not for the Army. I'm fighting for Steve. And I know I promised to stay safe and come home but if it's a choice between me or him I'd beg God to take me. I'm sorry, Becs. I'll try, I promise. I'll come home to you. The war will be over soon, and I'll come home._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

***

They only stay a couple days and then they keep moving, arriving in the south-eastern corner of France occupied by Italy just after there's an armistice on September 8 between Italy and the Allied forces, the Italian troops retreating under pressure from the Germans. They board a ship in Monaco and sail around Greece to the Agia Marina in Maliakos Kopos where there's a Hydra facility, making a water landing and hitting the base with prejudice. 

Bucky picks off Hydra agents, each shot meeting its mark perfectly and Bucky feeling nothing as he reloads and shoots again. He has seen too much death. None of them have been the same after Normandy. The sounds of the beach still haunt him, the screams of dying men ripped to pieces and more surging over them without stopping, gunfire and explosions picking them off one by one. Young men, barely older than kids, holding their guts in their hands as they bleed out into the sand, crying out for their mothers, someone, but no one helps them and another shot puts them out of their misery. They had all seen war before, seen men die, but this was different. He's heard the deaths from the first day total in the thousands, and would be more if Steve and the Howling Commandos hadn't been there. So much death, so much he wonders if the earth is permanently stained red from all the blood spilled in this godforsaken war. 

When the fighting moves inside Bucky abandons his perch and heads into the action, moving forward with the predatory grace that comes so easily now as he picks off agents unhurriedly. Steve catches his eye and throws the shield, Bucky catching it and using it to block fire while Gabe takes the agents out before flinging it back to Steve with practiced ease. He can feel Steve in his chest, the thrumming presence that never goes away, and he doesn't even have to turn to know where he is. Steve throws the shield and Bucky is already spinning to catch it, both of them working in perfect synchronization that's wholly unnatural. It feels like breathing, Steve and Bucky meshing into one consciousness as they fight, the shield flashing back and forth as Bucky switches to using knives for the last few agents, barely breaking a sweat. 

The last agent goes down and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Another base gone. They've cleared the major ones off the map, all that's left is to find the one where Schmidt and Zola are hiding and disrupt the last Hydra lines. The Howlies regroup and chart a course up through Greece, Bulgaria, and Romania to the USSR, where Peggy is stationed in Stalingrad and half the battalion have been trapped behind German lines by a blizzard, a Hydra blockade pinning them there for months. By now Romania and Bulgaria are almost fully under Soviet control, and they help push the last of Hydra and the Germans out as they advance up the coast.

***

_November 20, 1944_

_Becca,_

_It's not yet Thanksgiving but it will have been by the time you get this letter, so Happy Thanksgiving. Wish I could be there but hope you have a wonderful time and eat lots of Ma's food. God I miss her food. I'm thankful this year that Steve is safe and all the Howlies are safe and I'm safe as well. Can't believe it's been a year since Steve rescued us from that factory. It seems a lifetime ago and yet yesterday at the same time. Looks like we're gonna be fighting a few more months, I won't be home in time for Christmas for sure but I'll write. I'll be thinking of all of you and I can't wait to see you again. We won't have a feast but we're gonna do something special for Thanksgiving. We're in Romania now, I know, strange right? I always wanted to travel the world and now here I am. Not quite what I envisioned, though. I hope you're doing alright, what's this about being promoted at the factory? And you said you narrowed down your college choices, what's your top one? Tell me everything that's going on. It's pretty quiet here and I'm just about goin' insane listening to these guys yap all day. Anyways, love and miss you, hope to see you soon._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

***

It's two weeks to Christmas and they're in the USSR, heading east towards Stalingrad. The air is crisp and cold and snow falls all around, their breaths misting in front of them. They're huddled in one tent for warmth, Steve like a radiator because of the serum and everyone jostling for the closest spot. Bucky's pressed against his shoulder, not needing the heat but wanting to be close all the same. 

"I think I've lost feeling in my toes," Gabe complains. "Why's it gotta be so goddamn cold?"

"Nous n'avons pas ce temps en France," Dernier grumbles.  _We don't have this weather in France._

"Soviets are insane," Morita agrees. "Me? I live in California. Warm and sunny, all year round." He closes his eyes. "God I miss it."

Buck smiles, lost in memory. "In the winter our radiator would break and Steve would always stick his cold hands under my shirt just to make me mad. Now he's a goddamn furnace."

Monty chuckles. "You have so many stories. I would have liked to have known Rogers when he was smaller."

Steve ducks his head. "I wasn't any different."

Bucky shoves his shoulder. "Still an asshole, is what he means."

The men laugh. "You're not wrong, Sarge," Dum Dum says. "Our Cap here is one stubborn son of a gun."

"Oh god." Bucky groans. "You don't even  _know._ You know how many times I had to drag him kickin' and screamin' away from a fight? I swear half the bars in Brooklyn knew him on sight and banned him for life."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I didn't get  _banned."_

"Steve, at least two told me specifically, 'don't ever bring that kid back if you know what's good for you.'"

"I don't remember that."

"Yeah, cause you were drunk or beaten up and weren't listening anyway."

Steve scowls and Bucky grins, looping an arm around his neck and ruffling his hair. 

_"Those two,"_ he hears Gabe mumble to Dernier under his breath in French. " _I swear to God it's like watching a film."_

_"I know,"_ Dernier replies.  _"You'd think they'd have learned to hide it better."_

Gabe looks at them contemplatively.  _"I think they shouldn't have to."_

***

_December 20, 1944_

_Becca,_

_By the time this gets to you if will be Christmas, so Merry Christmas! I hope you get lots of presents and eat good food and have fun decorating the tree. I'm sad I'll miss it again but I really think the war will be over soon. I might even be home before summer, who knows? It's cold as hell here, the Soviets really must be insane. The Howlies are griping like hell and Gabe swears he has frostbite on his left pinky toe. We'll sure be glad when this winter ends. How are things in Brooklyn? Is it cold there? How much snow did you get? I think I miss it more with every day. I keep thinking about those years, and it's strange how your perspective can change. Back then we were miserable a lot of the time; Steve was always sick and I was always working and we were poor and sometimes we didn't have enough to eat, but now looking back I'd give anything to go back. Things were tough, but we were happy. There was no war, or death, or all this meaningless suffering. We'd go to Midnight Mass and Steve would fall asleep on my shoulder and then we'd wake up early on Christmas to open presents and stuff ourselves with food, and everything was simple and happy. Now Steve's got some serum inside him that made him big and strong and ~~I'm a~~  I've got scars all over and we're sitting on the cold ground in the goddamn Soviet Union getting ready to kill people. Everything's so complicated. And I said we'd come home but that's the thing, we can't go back to how it was. Steve's Captain America, a war hero, and so am I, I guess. Life isn't simple anymore. I guess I just have no idea what's gonna happen. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe I don't want to know what happens. But I'll come home, Becca, I promise you that. _

_Love,_

_Bucky_

***

It's Christmas and they're singing Christmas carols off-key, cigarette smoke wafting up into the night and boots crunching in the snow as they walk down the street of the bombed-out town. Bucky slings an arm around Steve's shoulder and tugs him close, inhaling his scent. 

"Merry Christmas, Steve," he murmurs.

Steve smiles softly. "Merry Christmas, Buck."

***

It's January, a new year, and they're in Stalingrad making a plan. The Hydra blockade is huge, having pinned down their Allies for months, and there's probably over a thousand men in need of rescuing. 

"If we go straight through here," Steve is saying, "I can draw their fire while you guys take them out here and here."

Bucky shakes his head. "No. No way. You're not  _drawing fire,_ Rogers. There's too many of them. You'll only get yourself killed."

Steve sighs. "You got a better idea?"

"As a matter of fact..." Bucky moves forward, over the drawing. "You and I go here, Dum Dum and Gabe hit here and Morita, Dernier, and Falsworth hit here with explosives."

Steve blinks. "That's actually...not a bad plan."

Peggy huffs, leaning over the map. "It's a  _better_ plan. But, if we split it so Dugan, Gabe, and Falsworth all go here then Dernier and Morita can lay the explosives along here without issue. You and Sergeant Barnes hit here, full frontal attack. The rest of the soldiers come in behind you, including me."

Bucky nods. "I agree. What's the word, Steve?"

They all look at him expectantly. Steve shrugs, nodding. "When in doubt, do as Peggy says."

In a matter of hours they're hitting the blockade, Steve and Bucky fighting their way through while the Commandos hit in strategic locations, splitting the fight away from them and blowing up their main section as Alllied soldiers move in. It's almost exhilarating, fighting back to back with Steve, the awareness of him in Bucky's chest giving them a tactical advantage as he doesn't have to look at Steve to know what he's doing. He uses it to throw the Hydra agents off, them not suspecting Bucky to catch the shield thrown at his back or be able to so accurately match Steve's movements. Bucky's enhancements almost rival Steve's, meaning Hydra has to deal with two super-soldiers instead of one, and they are able to see and hear through the snow and darkness while Hydra is left blundering. They're wholly unprepared, and Bucky and Steve rip through them like they're made of paper, the shield flashing back and forth between them so fast the Hydra agents almost look dizzy. They finally break through the blockade and regroup with the Commandos, setting off to where the men are pinned behind the line. There's over a thousand of them, as estimated, and they cheer when they see Steve. Now with ample reinforcements they turn back to the blockade, Hydra quickly surrendering. The men are marched back to the base, the wounded passed off to medics and the Commandos helping where needed. Peggy strides over, still in combat gear, a proud expression on her face.

"You just saved over a thousand men, something we haven't been able to do in months."

Steve shifts uncomfortably. "Well, it's was your plan."

Peggy just shakes her head. "You boys should be proud of yourselves." She pins Bucky with a glance. "Though many Hydra agents are saying the battle was quite...extraordinary. Be careful."

He nods. 

"Thanks, Peggy," Steve says. "How've you been?"

She smiles. "Well, all things considered." The other Commandos come over, circling around. "How are you boys holding up?"

Dum Dum grins. "We're doing just fine, Carter. Always a pleasure seeing you."

Someone stumbles, knocking into Peggy before she steadies him with hands on his shoulders.

"So sorry, ma'm," the soldier says, blinking at Peggy in wonder. Bucky suppresses a snort. Peggy seems to have this effect on many men. 

Peggy blinks back, looking almost similarly affected. "It's quite all right. Are you wounded?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Just a leg injury." He goes to step on his right leg and winces, Peggy's hands tightening on his shoulders.

"Here. Let me help you." She slides an arm around his waist and puts his arm over her shoulders, starting to help him hobble away. "What's your name, soldier?"

The reply is lost as they disappear into the throng of soldiers.

***

The Commandos join with the Red Army and Allied troops, driving across the USSR and into Poland. It's January 27, 1945, when Bucky loses the last vestige of his innocence and belief in humanity. The people in the camp- _Auschwitz-_ are no more than skeletons, dirty and sick and dressed in striped clothes, haunted eyes to rival Bucky's own. They tell them they are the ones left behind, that the others have already been killed or forced to leave when the Germans heard that the Soviets were approaching. As the troops wander around the camp the true nature of the war finally becomes clear, what they have only heard in rumors now stark before their eyes. Bucky feels something inside him shrivel and die. 

He slings an arm around an older woman hobbling out, helping her through the gate that reads "Arbeit macht frie."  _Work will make you free._

"Wir sind frei?" the woman asks, voice weak.  _We are free?_

He swallows, grip tightening. His German is rough but passable. "Ja. Du bist frei. Du bist jetzt in Sicherheit. Wie heißen Sie?"  _Yes. You're free. You're safe now. What is your name?"_

The woman pauses, looking up at him with haunted eyes. "Es ist lange her, dass ich einen Namen habe."  _It has been a long time since I have had a name._ She touches the number pinned to her shirt. "Sara. Sara Dressler."

"Du wirst jetzt in Ordnung sein, Sara. Mein Name ist Bucky."  _You're going to be okay now, Sara. My name is Bucky.  
_

She suddenly squeezes his hand tight, eyes filling with tears. "Danke. Danke."  _Thank you. Thank you._

***

He's sitting outside the complex, lost in his thoughts, cigarette dangling from his lips. He feels numb, the faces of the liberated prisoners haunting him. He'd pulled person after person out, women and children and men who barely looked human anymore, face after gaunt face, and they barely know what to do with them. They're passing out food, but he knows many are sick and won't survive, the joy at their rescue short-lived and for nothing. He can scarcely comprehend the horrors the prisoners are talking about, the horrors that are evident as they move through the sprawling camp. It's inhuman.

Morita sinks down next to him, lighting his own cigarette. 

"You know," he says after a minute, "they've got camps back in America, too. Not as bad, but..."

Bucky turns his head to look at him, frowning as the puzzle pieces click. "I didn't know. Not really."

Morita nods, swallowing. "Yeah. S'where they took all the Japanese. They gave me a choice, camp or Army. I chose Army."

Bucky takes another drag from his cigarette. "That's not right." He's heard the mutterings of other soldiers, the suspicious looks they throw at Morita. He's even had to step in a few times when it escalated to yelling and shoving, soldiers spitting curses as Morita looks a mixture of angry and devastated. He's also heard the slurs they throw at Gabe, the way they don't respect him, and had the pleasure of watching Steve chew out and even punch the racist sons of bitches, all of them chagrined at being the target of Captain America's ire. It's all enough to make his blood boil with enough righteous anger to match Steve's. 

"Yeah." Morita's voice is rough. "I'm fighting for my country, hell I've bled for my country, and they've got my whole family locked up like criminals. It's a goddamn messed up world, Sarge."

Bucky tips his head back against the wall. "That it is, Jim. That it is."

***

_February 10, 1945_

_Becca,_

_I hope you never find out the evil people can do to each other. I thought I knew, but I didn't. You will see a newspaper report talking about a camp the Soviets liberated. No one will believe it. It is true. And there are probably other camps, more we don't know about. How did we not know about this? Or maybe we did know. We just didn't want to. No one wanted to believe it, because to do that would be to realize what we are capable of. The violence, the inhumanity. We like to think we would never do these things, but we could. Any of us could. We all have the potential for evil inside us. I have felt it, as I stared down the scope of my rifle. As I've taken lives without remorse. I am not a good man, but are any of us? All we can do is to try our best. To remember that there are good people in this world, like Steve. To remember the strength of the people in those camps, who have suffered more than anyone should ever suffer and yet still retained their humanity, their goodness. We are capable of great evil, but also great good. I do not think they are wholly separate. We have both inside of us, always, fighting for dominance. It is what you let win that determines who you are. Everyone has a dark side. Hell, even Steve, for how good he is. None of us are perfect, but we try. We keep fighting. I will keep fighting, and I will come home like I promised. The war is almost over. I can see it now, going home. I can picture what I'll do when I walk through the door and see you standing there, how Ma will cry and hug me tight and Pa will get all misty eyed and clap me on the shoulder. Steve and I will go to the Grand Canyon, and you and I will both go to college and do great things in the world, because we're Bucky and Becca, always. God, I've missed you so much, Becs. I'll be home soon. Promise._

_Love,_

_Bucky_

***

The Commandos have split off from the main Army with a smaller group of Soviets, heading down through Czechoslovakia and into Austria. They steal a Hydra radio from a small base in Austria, overhearing that Zola's going to be on a train through the Alps at the border of Austria and Italy, near the Brenner Pass. Hearing the name makes nausea churn in Bucky's gut and all the Commandos faces go hard, glancing over at Bucky. The mission will be tricky, only the Commandos venturing up to intercept the train and only Steve, Bucky, and Gabe actually getting on it. They'll capture Zola and meet up with the team before transporting Zola up to the Allied HQ in London to be interrogated and imprisoned by the SSR.

It's February 20 and they're standing on the ledge, wind whipping their faces as they stare down at the railroad tracks cutting a swath through the jagged Alps. Morita and Gabe are fiddling with the stolen Hydra radio, intercepting their transmissions, the zip line they'll swing down on already dangling over the tracks as Steve and Bucky eye it with trepidation.

"Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?" Bucky asks, smiling at the memory.

"Yeah, and I threw up?"

"This isn't payback, is it?"

Steve turns, tracing the path of the zip line. "Now why would I do that?"

Bucky chuckles at Steve's too-innocent answer. Goddamn punk. 

"We were right." Steve and Bucky turn at Gabe's voice. "Dr. Zola’s on the train. Hydra dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he’s going, they must need him bad."

Steve glances at Bucky before putting on his cowl, moving under the zip line. Monty's peering through his binoculars, Bucky hearing the train chugging down the line in the distance as they collect their gear. 

"Let’s get going, because they’re moving like the devil," Monty says.

Steve hooks the handle onto the zip line and wraps his hands around it, Dernier's hand raised in a holding signal.  "We only got about a 10-second window. You miss that window, we’re bugs on a windshield."

"Mind the gap," Monty adds.

Steve readjusts his grip on the handle as the train gets closer, Dum Dum standing next to Bucky and giving him a small squeeze on the shoulder. "Better get moving, bugs!" 

Dernier's hand falls. "Maintenant!"  _Now!_

Steve pushes off as Bucky hooks his own handle onto the line and follows on Dernier's signal, Gabe right behind. They glide over the train and drop down as it rounds the corner, moving forward over the cars and staying low as wind buffets them and threatens to knock them off. Finally they make it to a small ladder in the side of the train, Bucky following Steve down while Gabe stays on the roof to cover them and head for the engine room to cut Zola off. Steve and Bucky swing inside, closing the door after them. The car is silent and relatively empty, only a few racks of equipment down the center but nothing seeming too conspicuous, Bucky getting a bad feeling nonetheless. He watches Steve's back as he ventures into the next car, looking back to make sure they're clear and on some sense that something or someone is there, though he sees nothing. Suddenly the doors close between them, Steve looking back at him in terror through the window before Bucky whirls, sensing a presence. He fires, seeing three Hydra agents with regular guns but hearing the tell-tale whine of energy guns from Steve's car.  _It's a trap,_ he realizes. They want him alive.  _Zola_ wants him alive. 

He returns fire, dropping one agent as he ducks behind crates for cover before his rifle runs out and he switches to his pistol with his left hand, moving across the car to the other corner. His pistol clicks empty and he presses back against the wall, hopeless resignation filling him. He should have known Hydra wouldn't let him go so easily. They'll never let him go, he thinks.

The door opens and he turns, seeing Steve. He holds up a gun before throwing it to Bucky, not needing words to communicate as he runs forward and Bucky covers him automatically, dropping one agent as Steve shoves a crate into the other. Bucky steps forward, gun lowering and breaths uneven.

"I had him on the ropes."

"I know you did," Steve replies. There's the whine of an energy gun behind them and Steve shoves him back, covering him with the shield. "Get down!"

The blast hits Steve's shield and ricochets off, blowing a hole in the side of the train as Steve hits the wall and the shield slips from his grasp. Bucky grabs the shield from the floor, holding it with his left arm as he fires with the right. Another blast sends him flying through the air against the ripped wall of the train, hands desperately clawing and gripping a railing.

"Bucky!" Steve shouts, starting to climb out onto the piece of metal using the closest railing. Bucky tries to scoot closer on his own railing, hands slipping as wind buffets his body. Steve's only a few feet away now. He can make it, he thinks. "Hang on!"

They get as close as they can on their respective railings and Steve flings out a hand towards Bucky. "Grab my hand!"

The railing pulls away from the side, slipping. Bucky stretches out a hand, only inches between their fingers.

"No!" Steve grabs for him desperately but the railing breaks and Bucky falls, a cry torn from his lips and hand still outstretched. Steve disappears from his vision as wind rushes past him and his body tumbles through the air and he closes his eyes as a strange peace washes over him. This is the end. At least Hydra will never get him now.  _I'm sorry, Becs,_ he thinks.  _I broke my promise._ In the last moments before he hits the ground he prays.  _Ave Maria, gratia plena, please protect Steve-_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I spent more time researching for this than I did writing it so please give Kudos for my tired brain. :) It's all actually historically accurate (except for Cap and the Commandos being there, obvs, plus Hydra).  
> If you look up the Normandy D-Day scene from Saving Private Ryan that's a pretty accurate depiction of the event and how horrific it was and what I based the scene on.  
> https://flashbak.com/collaborators-babes-and-refugees-45-fantastic-photos-of-the-normandy-french-after-d-day-64313/ is an amazing series of photos from the Allied liberation of France complete with adorable children and soldiers  
> Hand wavy MCU compliance as always.  
> Having the Soviets advance faster with Cap and the Commandos here so that them finding Bucky actually makes sense, because the Soviets didn't reach Austria until March 31, 1945. I know Bucky's death date is listed as 1944 but that makes no sense, there was a real mission in Brenner pass in the alps in February (also on a Cap comic cover so likely the location of Bucky's fall) and given Steve went into the ice late February or early March (Newspaper reporting his disappearance was March 5) I didn't want too much time to pass between Bucky falling and that, because they got the info from Zola that the Valkyrie was taking off in, quote "under 24 hours," so they literally did that mission right after they captured Zola and interrogated him, not months later. Also, many people have pointed out that Zola's train mission was probably a trap for Bucky. The way he had cameras and agents ready and the doors closed but Steve faced guys with guns that could vaporize him while Bucky only faced regular Hydra agents point to this. And Zola said "kill him," not "kill them," only referring to Steve. Schmidt mentions before for the doctor to "finish his mission," and they never said what that was but here I'm saying that Zola's whole mission was Bucky. Zola looks very smugly knowing when Colonel Phillips says "the last guy you cost us was Captain Roger's best friend," telling me he knew Bucky would survive the fall.


	8. Chapter 8

He comes back to awareness to pain. Everything hurts, and he gasps and wheezes through the constriction in his chest, nothing but white in his vision as his eyes flutter open. He sees blue sky faintly above the white cliffs, everything blurring in and out of focus and his eyelids drooping heavily as he tries to look around. He is laying in the bottom of the ravine, shallow water rushing over his body but his head and shoulders partway on the bank of the stream, cold wetness seeping through his jacket. His left arm feels like it is on fire and he turns his head slowly, pain lancing through the back as his gaze finally comes to rest on what should be his arm, only it's not there. It ends above the elbow, ragged stump floating slightly in the current and turning the water red, and he stares at it with a sort of detached fascination, reality not quite sinking in. His gaze moves further up the stream and catches on the rest of his arm, caught up between rocks at the opposite bank. He blinks, watching the lifeless fingers flutter slightly as water rushes under them. He thinks, distantly, that this is bad. This is very bad.

As awareness creeps back fully he assesses his situation, retreating into detached numbness that has served him well on the battlefield. First priority is the severed arm. Second is the fact that he can't seem to move or feel his legs. Third is the crushing sensation in his chest, telltale broken ribs. Fourth is what feels like a head injury. Fifth....fifth is hunger. Actually, hunger is first priority, he decides. It crashes over him like a wave, taking his breath away. He needs blood. He doesn't know when search teams will get here, or even how long he's been out, but with coldness creeping over him from blood loss the icy water is unbearable. He needs to get out of this stream if he wants to live, though he thinks the stream is what has saved his life. He must have fallen into the water but hit his arm on the rocks, severing it and floating downstream a little ways before washing up onto the bank. He's definitely taking the honorable discharge this time, he thinks grimly. Can't really fight with one arm. He's ready to go home, too. He's had enough of this godforsaken war. 

He steels himself and uses his right arm to start to drag himself out of the stream, turning onto his side and clawing forwards through the snow. His arm throbs and his legs drag behind him limply but he grits his teeth and keeps going, dragging until he sees that his feet are out of the water. Then he stops, wheezing heavily, rolling onto his back and staring up at the sky as the world spins. A few snowflakes drift down, all still and silent around him. Hunger claws at his insides and he feels cold, so cold, and he wonders when they will find him but before he can think further his eyes grow heavy and he falls into darkness again.

***

Someone is patting him over, cold fingers pressed to his neck over his pulsepoint. He turns his head, the smell of flesh and blood sharp in his nose and mouth watering. A hand pats his cheek and he turns towards the wrist on instinct, fangs coming down as he opens his mouth to bite down-

"Kakogo cherta!" The hand is ripped away, Bucky's head lolling limply again as he breathes unsteadily, hunger pressing at him insistently and eyes fluttering as he tries to stay awake, voices swirling around him and figures blurring in his vision. 

"Chto eto?" Hands grab his head again, holding it in place as fingers peel back his lips, someone leaning over him to peer at his fangs. Bucky tries to move his head away, panic threading through the fog overtaking everything.

The hands release him. "Neveroyatnyy. Slukhi verny. Zole udalos' sozdat' vampira."

"Chto my s nim sdelayem?"

"My ne mozhem dat' yego amerikantsam. Eto monumental'noye otkrytiye. My dolzhny vernut' yego v Rossiyu, chtoby uchit'sya, i pust' amerikantsy schitayut yego mertvym. Podnimi yego na nosilkakh."

Hands grab him and lift him onto a stretcher, the stump of his left arm hanging over the side and leaving a trail of blood through the snow, figures in fur caps swimming in Bucky's vision. Soviets. He feels relief. They must be the search team. He'll see Steve soon. He lets his eyes slip closed, darkness rushing in.

***

He opens his eyes to bright lights, men in surgical gowns and masks approaching with gleaming metal implements, needles flashing before his eyes as the world grows hazy; he blinks and there is a saw cutting through his arm and pain spikes before the world goes dark again.

When he opens his eyes again he is on a table, a sheet covering him from chest down. He notices his tags are missing. When he turns his head slightly he can see a bandaged stump where his left arm used to be and he swallows, turning away. There is an IV in his right arm, the bag filled with red fluid that an inhale confirms as blood, and his body aches all over but he no longer feels close to death. 

Footsteps sound and someone walks into the room, stopping by the table. He looks to be Soviet, grey eyes and a lined face under a fur cap and officer's uniform. 

"Good morning, Sergeant Barnes. I see you are awake. How are you feeling?" His voice is thickly accented but crisp, sharp grey eyes assessing Bucky.

"Hurts," Bucky rasps. "But I'm alive. Where am I?"

"Austria. For now. But that is no concern of yours."

Bucky blinks.  _What?_ "Where's Ste-Captain Rogers?"

"London, I presume."

Bucky blinks again. "What? Why?" Why would Steve leave him when he's hurt? It must be extremely important, whatever it is. Steve wouldn't just leave him. He wouldn't.

The man sighs. "So many questions. For now, I will indulge you. Then I will be the one asking questions."

Bucky swallows, getting a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You will tell us everything we need to know about what you are."

Icy fear grips Bucky. _No. No, not again. Please._ "Who the hell do you think you are? You-Steve will come back for me."

"My name is General Aleksander Lukin. I am a member of Leviathan, an organization started by Stalin himself to ensure that the Soviet Union rises to all its glory. And I'm afraid the Captain will not be coming for you. You are far too valuable to leave in the Americans' hands. It was necessary to inform them that you had been killed in action."

Bucky feels the breath punch out of him.  _He has not been rescued._ "No," he breathes. "No. You can't-you can't do this."

"I think you will find that I can. You are the only successful vampire anyone has managed to create in this century. It has made us reconsider our stance on Hydra. The Soviets know the legends, but to see one in person is incredible." Lukin's gaze flits over Bucky wonderingly. "You will serve a great cause."

Bucky grits his teeth, wishing he wasn't so weak so he could do something, anything, but all he can do is lay there as panic courses through him. He almost feels like crying.  _He can't do this again._ "I ain't doin' shit for you."

Lukin just purses his lips. "We shall see. For now, rest. You will need your strength for the journey."

"Journey where?"

Lukin smiles. "The Soviet Union, of course."

***

He is hauled onto a stretcher by rough hands and loaded into the back of a truck, guards all around, though he couldn't fight back even if he wanted to. He's too weak, injuries still healing and the Soviets only having given him enough blood to keep him alive and healing but weakened. It takes five days to reach their location by his estimate, though he has no sense of time in the back of the truck. He is unloaded again and taken into what looks like a base, with heavy doors and an elevator they go down into an underground complex with cement floors and white walls. They move further on into a room lined with medical equipment and strap him down to a table again with reinforced cuffs on his three remaining limbs, straps over his hips and chest to keep him in place. Doctors move around him, inserting an IV into his right arm and connecting it to a bag of blood, releasing the stopper and allowing it to snake through the tube and into his vein. He barely suppresses a sigh of relief, the warmth flowing through him and starting to wash away the pain in his body. It seems now that he's secured they want him healed quickly, and they give him an entire bag until he feels alive and thrumming with energy again, everything healed except that his arm, he knows, will never come back. There is only so much he can heal.

He tries not to think about it. He has bigger problems than a missing arm, the truth of his capture finally sinking in. They won't find him. They won't even be looking, thinking him dead, and he's pretty sure this base is in the middle of nowhere in the Soviet Union. He's not getting out of here. He'll never get to go home, will never see Steve again. He'll die here, alone and abandoned on a godforsaken table. He wonders if he really ever got off of Zola's table at all. Maybe he just dreamed he had. Or maybe this is a nightmare, like so many others he's had before, of being captured again and strapped to a table but never being rescued.  _Wake up,_ he thinks.  _Please, wake up._

***

When he's completely healed they unstrap him and throw him in a cell, Bucky trying to fight but quickly unbalanced with his missing arm and overpowered by guards. He wonders what they're waiting for, to begin the torture and experiments, but then thinks that Lukin's calling in more doctors and experts. They've only just found him, after all. They seem wholly unprepared for what to do with him, which he supposes is at least better than Hydra. 

There are no windows in his cell, being underground, and the lights stay on at all times. He doesn't know whether it's day or night, but he uses his enhanced calculation skills to estimate each day, scratching tally marks into the white walls. It's been probably three so far, plus five of travel and maybe a few between falling and waking up in Austria. He searches for the thread that connects him to Steve, feeling him faintly but unable to tell specifics. He's countries away, now. He must be mourning Bucky along with the rest of the Commandos, and Bucky wishes the connection went both ways so Steve would know he's alive.  _I'm here,_ he wants to scream.  _I didn't leave you. I'll never leave you._

***

He jolts awake and sits upright on the cot, gasping as his hand comes to his chest.

"No. No. No no no no no," he chokes out. " _Steve."_ The world blurs as icy coldness stabs his heart, the sound of a heartbeat echoing in his ears, and suddenly he feels Steve as if he were next to him, feels his breaths falter and slow and his body go limp as coldness creeps over him.  _Thump thump..thump thump.....thump thump......thump thump........thump...........thump._ The heartbeat stops. A hole opens up in his chest.

 He is distantly aware that he is screaming.

***

"The Captain is dead," Lukin says. 

Bucky stares up at the ceiling blankly, not responding. 

"They say he disappeared a few days ago and the news did not reach us until now. It is March fifth. But you knew. How did you know?" 

Bucky doesn't respond.  _March 5,_ his brain whispers distantly. He will be twenty-eight in five days.

There's a sigh. "Very well. We shall find out eventually. First, we must learn everything we can about you."

Guards swarm into the cell and drag him out, limp and unresisting. They strap him to the table and he lets them, staring up at the ceiling. There is nothing more they can do to him, he thinks, nothing worse than the pain of losing Steve, the icy hole in his chest. He is wrong.

***

The doctors draw blood and study him, cutting into him to find out how his body works. He finds out what his insides look like, the blood slowly dripping through the IV keeping him alive as they poke and prod, a piece of leather shoved into his mouth to prevent him from cracking his teeth again. They always give him enough blood after everything so that he heals quickly, only the major incisions scarring. The old scars, though, on his torso and leg, those stay, and his arm remains a shiny stump.

They starve him for a while in order to make his fangs come down, studying those as well. They ask him questions about his senses, torturing him when he only repeats his name, rank, and serial number over and over until he can barely whisper, until the words become meaningless.

***

He lays on the table, staring up at the ceiling. They have finally left him alone, blood dripping slowly through the IV and healing the fresh marks on his body. They didn't have to heat the knives, this time. The silver blades had burnt his skin well enough on their own and caused pain of the sort he's never felt before. That part of vampire myth is true, he thinks distantly. His throat is still raw from screaming. He has not given them anything, yet, but he thinks he will break eventually. He can't do this again. He's not that strong. And there is no hope, no Steve to save him and pull him off the table. Steve is dead. There is only coldness where his presence once rested in Bucky's chest, warm and bright and beautiful. Steve is dead, and Bucky has failed the one thing he's always sworn to do: Protect Steve.  _It was supposed to be me,_ he thinks.  _I was supposed to go first._ If there is a God, Bucky hates him.  _Why?_ he wants to scream.  _Why did you take him and not me?_

There is no answer. Bucky stares up at the ceiling and feels the coldness spread.

***

He breaks, eventually, and answers their questions. It's not like it's state secrets, and they will find out eventually. He tells himself it doesn't matter. Something inside him whispers that it does.

***

They do not give him food or water. He doesn't seem to need them. He doesn't leave the table, only sleeping in short spurts when they leave him alone and exhaustion wins over. The cuffs on the table are now lined with silver, Bucky's wrist and ankles constantly burning and healing when he strains against them until he learns to ignore the pain. He doesn't know how long it has been. Weeks, he thinks.

Finally the doctors seem satisfied with their findings and pass him on to Lukin.

***

"You had a connection to Captain Rogers?"

Bucky breathes unsteadily, body coursing with pain. There is no point in resisting. "Yes."

"Good, you're cooperating." Lukin lets a little more blood flow through the IV, washing away the pain. "How did you feed?"

"Steve."

"No one else?"

"No."

"Hmm." Warmth rushes through Bucky from the blood and his body relaxes slightly. "And you could what, sense him?"

Bucky bites his lip, staying silent. Lukin cuts off the blood flow.

"Answer me."

Tears prick at Bucky's eyes. Lukin lifts the knife and Bucky inhales sharply.

"Yes. Yes."

Lukin lowers the knife. "Good. That is how you knew of his death?"

Bucky feels tears slip down his face. "Yes," he whispers.

Lukin lets blood flow through the IV again. "Did the connection go both ways?"

"No."

"I see. This is valuable information. The doctors are already studying your blood, and we have determined how your body works. We may be able to create more of you soon. You have been very helpful, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky stares up at the ceiling. 

"You may rest now," Lukin says. 

Guards finally un-cuff and unstrap him and drag him back to the cell, throwing him in. He curls up on the cot, muscles weak from disuse and body stiff and sore. His wrist and ankles are still burned, not enough blood in his system to heal them quickly. He falls asleep in minutes, tears still making tracks down his face.

***

Lukin steps up to the cell. "Good morning, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky doesn't respond.

"The war is over. We have reached out to Dr. Zola through our agents embedded in the SSR. He is quite eager to continue his work on you. Unfortunately, his hands are tied at the moment. You shall be kept in stasis until he gains his freedom, and while we attempt to create more of your kind loyal to the cause. Our Red Room program is showing promising results. If we could create an army of vampires it would place the Soviet Union above all in the world. If we are successful, you shall no longer be necessary and will be allowed to rest permanently. If not, further measures may be needed. You have been invaluable to our cause, Sergeant Barnes. Time will tell whether we see each other again."

With a nod guards open the cell and drag Bucky out, taking him to an unfamiliar room where there is what looks like a large metal coffin in the center. They shove him inside, an IV slotted into his arm and straps holding him in place. The door closes over him and he looks through the small window as doctors fiddle with controls but before he can do anything cold creeps up his body and he sinks into darkness.

***

There is warmth running through him, chasing away the cold. Something whirs and clanks and then there are hands on his body, fingers pressed to his neck as voices swirl indistinctly. His eyes flutter open, figures blurring in his vision. Fingers pry open his eyes and light shines in his vision as he takes rasping breaths, gulping in air. He shudders as the cold retreats, everything tingling and burning and hunger spiking only to quiet as blood continues to flow through the IV in his arm. He breathes steadily now, awareness returning and vision resolving, men in white coats swarming around him. He's in the chamber, and the doctors undo the straps and IV as guards come up to haul him out, body still weak and everything hazy. He's dragged to the table and secured, another IV inserted as blood begins to drip slowly through it. A face looms in his vision and his breaths stutter.

"Sergeant Barnes." Zola's face swims over him, eyes beady and delighted behind round glasses, a twisted smile on his face over his spotted bowtie and lab coat. He raises a mask and presses it over Bucky's mouth and nose, the world going fuzzy. "The procedure has already started," Zola says. "You are to be the new fist of Hydra." His words fade away as Bucky inhales the anesthesia and everything goes dark.

***

He blinks his eyes open, bright lights swimming in his vision. His left arm feels heavy and strange, he thinks groggily.  _Left arm?_ his brain whispers. This is-this is not right, he lost his arm, he thinks, but he raises his hands and there are two of them, but the left one is metal and gleaming and he stares at it in muddled fascination, brain registering the doctors surrounding him vaguely. One leans over him and he curls the hand into a fist, sudden panic and anger sparking as he wraps it around the doctor's throat and squeezes until a needle is stabbed into his thigh and the world swirls away.

***

When he opens his eyes again he is still on the table, but the metal arm- _he has a metal arm-_ is cuffed to the table securely. He turns his head to see, eyes roving over the arm. It comes up all the way over his shoulder, scarring visible at the seam from the corner of his eye and a Soviet red star emblazoned on the shoulder, plates rippling when he tries to move it. It's extraordinary, he thinks, in a horrible way. He would have been fascinated and excited about it, before, but he can't bring himself to feel that this is anything but bad now. They surely aren't giving him a new arm for his comfort.  _You are to be the new fist of Hydra._ They plan to use him.

He turns his head back to face the ceiling, swallowing. He may have given in to interrogation, but he'll never do Hydra's bidding. Never.

***

Zola returns a few hours after he wakes, the same delighted gleam in his eyes, accompanied by an unfamiliar man. 

"Sergeant Barnes, this is my good friend Johann Fennhoff. He is part of Leviathan, which I am sure General Lukin has told you about. He has the incredible talent to take hold of men's minds, to make them subjects to his every whim. It is a talent I see most useful here. You see, you are the only one, Sergeant Barnes. The only successful vampire. Though they have tried, the Soviets are unable to recreate you. Hydra is everywhere, even in Russia, and you will be our greatest asset." Zola turns to the man beside him. "Now, Dr. Fennhoff, if you please."

Dr. Fennhoff steps up beside the table, rubbing his ring. "Focus on me, Sergeant Barnes. Focus on my voice."

Bucky blinks slowly, everything else fading.

"Good." Hands undo the straps and cuffs and slide the IV out. "Now can you follow me?"

He slides off the table, staggering as he is caught off balance by the metal arm.  _The metal arm-_

"Focus. Focus on me." The doctor's voice is low and soothing and everything else disappears again. "Come with me." He follows the doctor blindly, stumbling as his legs buckle under him. They are going down a hallway into a large room, a circular section set into the floor in the middle with a mechanical chair and wires. 

"Focus. Good."

He refocuses on the doctor, ignoring the people in the room as he follows him.

"Sit in the chair."

He sits in the chair, silver cuffs snapping over his arms and making him flinch. _Wait, no-_

"Focus. I need your complete focus."

He breathes deeply again, calming. 

"Thank you. Good. Now, I am going to say some words. When you hear them again, you will remember only this: You are the Winter Soldier. You are a skilled operative. You serve Russia and Hydra. General Lukin is your handler. Do you understand?"

His mind is blank and quiet, buzzing at the edges. "Yes."

"Good. The words are in Russian because you are Russian. I will speak them now: Zhelaniye, rzhavy, semnadtsat', rassvet, pech', devyat', dobroserdechnyy, vozvrashcheniye na rodinu, odin, gruzovy vagon. Can you remember them for me?"

"Yes."

"Good. After you remember, you will be addressed as 'soldat' and you will say this: 'Gotov k vypolneniyu.' Ready to comply. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Repeat it for me."

"Gotov k vypolneniyu."

"Good. Very good. Now, I need you to wake up." He snaps his fingers.

Bucky blinks back to awareness. He is in a chair, cuffs on his arms, doctors and guards all around and Zola, Dr. Fenhoff, and Lukin standing before him. His breathing picks up as he looks around wildly, panic clawing at his insides. Doctors type into computers and there is a whirring above his head.

"What the hell is this?" he manages, before the whirring picks up and something clamps around his face, his vision whiting out in pain.

***

The metal releases him.

"Zhelaniye, rzhavy, semnadtsat', rassvet, pech', devyat', dobroserdechnyy, vozvrashcheniye na rodinu, odin, gruzovy vagon."

He breathes and twitches, mind going blank. He is the Winter Soldier. He is a skilled operative. He serves Russia and Hydra. General Lukin is his handler. His eyes flick to Lukin, waiting.

"Dobroye utro, soldat."  _Good morning, soldier._

"Gotov k vypolneniyu."   _Ready to comply._

Lukin smiles. "Good. What do you remember?"

"I am the Winter Soldier. I am a skilled operative. I serve Russia and Hydra. You are my handler," he recites.

"Do you remember anything else?"

His metal finger twitches on the chair.  _Why does he have a metal arm? Did he always have it?_ He searches, trying to remember something, anything. He thinks.... _pain, cold, red blood on white snow, a face looming over him-beady eyes under round glasses-metal over his face, pain-_

"I-I don't know." He frowns. "Why can't I remember?"

"You do not need to remember."

The answer is....unsatisfactory. Something else niggles at his mind. "I don't-I don't remember my name." This seems wrong. People have names, he knows this, though he doesn't know how he knows. He knows many things without remembering why.

"You do not have a name."

He frowns. "Why?"

Lukin hesitates. "You are not human."

He blinks. Oh. This seems...wrong, but he has no evidence to refute it. But if he's not human, what is he? "What am I?" he questions.

"You are a vampire. We created you."

This makes...more sense. It explains why he cannot remember anything, somewhat, and maybe the metal arm. Maybe. He glances around. "Where am I?"

"You are in Russia. It is 1954."

The information doesn't mean anything to him, though he knows vaguely what Russia is. The year seems wrong, somehow, but he doesn't know why. Before he can come up with another question Lukin cuts him off. 

"Come. We will get you cleaned up, and then training will begin."

The cuffs release his arms and guards move forwards, helping him out of the chair and across the room as his legs wobble underneath him. They lead him to a small room with faucets set into the wall and instruct him to strip, turning on the water and letting it cascade over him. It is cold, but he barely feels it. A few strands of wet hair flop over his forehead irritatingly and he thinks that it is too long, though he doesn't remember why. He's handed soap and told to wash, which he does automatically though he doesn't remember ever doing before. As he washes he assesses his body, curious by what he finds. There are scars littering his torso, short and long and some wider than others and made of twisted red scar tissue. There are more scars at the seam of the metal arm, the arm itself only feeling pressure but nothing else, and a ring of faint scars around his right wrist. There's a jagged scar on his left thigh and a smaller one on his calf, gleaming white against his pale skin, faint rings of scars around his ankles. He has no idea where the scars have come from, but he knows he is a skilled operative and he thinks he must have gotten injuries in the field.  _Then why don't you remember?_ a small voice asks. He pushes it aside.  _He does not need to remember._

When he's done simple clothes are presented to him, black pants and a black shirt. His feet are left bare. He's able to walk on his own, strength coming back, and they herd him to another room, sitting him down behind a desk. A nervous-looking man fiddles with his glasses before stepping up, papers in hand.

"I am to teach you Russian. As soon as you are able you will only speak Russian."

The soldier listens intently as the man begins to instruct, talking and showing him papers with Russian grammar. He picks it up quickly, memorizing every piece of information he is provided, repeating back phrases perfectly. It is hours before they stop and the guards lead him to a cell, instructing him to rest. He complies, falling asleep in minutes.

***

He is woken the next morning by guards, who take him back to the Russian instructor where he learns and practices for hours. Then Lukin returns and he is lead to a large room and begins to train, off balance with the metal arm and having to learn to compensate. The doctor- _Zola,_ something tells him-watches from the sidelines and writes notes. He walks and runs and moves the arm until it feels natural, though something in the back of his mind wonders why it had not felt natural before. He asks, curious.

"Why do I have a metal arm?"

"You were injured."

It is all the answer he gets, and he accepts it even though something still feels off. When he is tired and breathing heavily guards lead him back to his cell and he falls asleep again, thinking of nothing.

***

There is a few hours of Russian lessons in the morning, and then training. It is more intense, agents beginning to spar with him and teach him more combat moves even though his body seems to remember fighting. Lukin speaks mostly in Russian except for when he doesn't understand. By the end all of the agents are on the floor, groaning, and Lukin looks pleased. 

_"Good job, soldier,"_ he says in Russian.  _"Are you hungry?"_

The soldier nods, knowing the clawing feeling in his stomach is hunger without remembering feeding. Lukin rolls up his sleeve, approaching. 

"You will feed enough to feel satiated, and no more," he instructs. He holds out his wrist and the soldier takes it on muscle memory, gripping his forearm and bringing it to his mouth as he feels his fangs come down. He sinks his teeth in, the warm blood flooding him with sensation and every cell floating with pleasure. He drinks until he feels satiated and then lets Lukin's wrist go, licking over the wound on instinct. Lukin peers at his wrist and then rolls his sleeve back down.

_"Very good. You may rest now, soldier."_

Guards escort him to the washroom as he rinses the sweat away, and then lead him to his cell. This time he lays awake for a little while, something prickling at the back of his mind.

***

He wakes with a name in his head.  _Steve._ He does not know who Steve is, or why he is important, but for some reason his hand goes to his chest and he feels a strange cold emptiness there he does not understand. The guards take him to Russian lessons and he complies but he is distracted, the name pressing at him insistently. When Lukin comes to collect him he asks, certain he will explain.

"Who is Steve?"

Lukin freezes.  _"What?"_

The soldier realizes he had spoken in English and switches to Russian.  _"I remember a name. Steve. Who is he?"_

_"No one."_

The soldier frowns, stopping in the middle of the hallway. "No, that's-that's not right. He is-he is someone. Who is he?"

He's caught off guard when Lukin's hand cracks against his face and staggers, blinking in confusion as he raises a hand to his reddened cheek. He  _hit_ him. 

_"You will not question me,"_ Lukin growls.

The soldier feels anger surge. "No." He glares at Lukin. "You-you've been lying to me. Something isn't right. I  _knew_ him." He's talking in English again, and that feels right too. Russian feels wrong.

_"Guards. And get the doctor."_

The guards grab him and the soldier struggles, lashing out with the metal arm and sending them flying. Then there are footsteps and a voice stops him in his tracks.

"Stop. Focus on me." He turns unwillingly, seeing the doctor- _with the words, he says the words-_ "Good. Focus. Calm. You are calm." The doctor spins his ring.

The soldier's ragged breathing slows, mind fogging.

"Good. Now you will follow General Lukin." Lukin starts walking and the soldier follows, mind blank. They walk into a room with a table and Lukin stops. "Get on the table," the doctor instructs.

The soldier complies, lying flat on the table, but sudden panic spikes and he jerks-

"Focus. Ignore everything around you."

The soldier sinks back into blankness. Lukin fastens cuffs around his wrist and ankles and inserts an IV, nodding to the doctor.

"Good. Now wake up." The doctor snaps his fingers.

The soldier takes a gasping breath, panic thrumming through his body. He-he knows this, his body knows this, he doesn't remember but he knows the table means pain and he strains against the cuffs but they burn and he makes a small sound of pain.

Lukin steps up. "You will not question me. You were created only to follow orders, nothing else. You do not think for yourself, you do not speak for yourself. You are not human. Whatever memories you have are nothing more than faulty code. You will be corrected for your noncompliance, and then you will be fixed. This is your first lesson."

The soldier's lip trembles. He does not understand. He thought they were-they were  _good,_ but they are hurting him and telling him things he knows are wrong and he  _doesn't understand,_ everything is new and overwhelming but it was okay, but now everything is  _bad_ and he doesn't know why, his head hurts and he wants-he wants to go  _home_ but he doesn't know where home is, he doesn't know, he doesn't-

Lukin drags the silver knife across his chest and he screams.

"Say it. Say, 'I am not human. I do not question. I only follow orders.'"

He grits his teeth, something inside him stubbornly railing against Lukin. "No."

The knife comes down again, scoring deep into his side.

"Say it."

He curls his hands into fists. "No."

The knife grates against one of his rib bones, the world whiting out in pain as he screams. 

"I will keep going until you say it."

The soldier stays silent, breathing raggedly. The knife comes down again. And again. And again. Over and over and over until he's shaking and crying, panting for breath between hoarse screams. Lukin moves to his feet, slicing open the soles. The pain builds and builds and finally the soldier sobs, breaking.

"Stop. Stop, please, make it stop, please-"

"Say it."

He takes a ragged breath, eyes squeezing closed. "I am not human," he rasps. "I do not question. I only follow orders."

_"Good job, soldier."_ Lukin releases the stopper on the IV so the steady dripping becomes a stream, warmth rushing through the soldier. He lets it flow for a moment before stopping it again and sliding the IV out, the wounds slightly healed but still there.  _"Now we will fix you,"_ he says.  _"After a while, it seems your programming breaks down. We will have to reboot you every so often. Now, you will follow me to the chair."_ He undoes the cuffs, helping the soldier slide off the table. Pain spikes through his slashed feet when they meet the ground but he ignores it, not wanting to be punished again. He follows Lukin down the hallway and into the large room with the chair, sinking into it. Silver cuffs snap around his arms, burning slightly. The doctor steps up, spinning his ring.

"Focus. Focus on me." The soldier's mind goes blank. "Good. You remember the words?"

He nods.

"Good. When you hear them again, you will remember only as before but you will also remember your training and your correction. Now, wake up." The doctor snaps his fingers.

The soldier blinks. Whirring sounds around him and his heart jumps, breathing picking up. The metal clamps around his face and he screams, throat already ripped raw as everything goes white.

***

The clamps release him and he jerks in the chair, breaths heaving. 

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

His breaths slow and his mind quiets. His gaze flicks to Lukin.

He is the Winter Soldier. He is a skilled operative. He serves Russia and Hydra. General Lukin is his handler. He is not human. He does not question. He only follows orders. If he does not, there is pain.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicized dialogue is in Russian

The soldier winces, cradling his broken finger to his chest and breathing heavily. 

_"Stop,"_ he says. The agents sparring him pause, looking back at Lukin. Lukin strides forward, striking the soldier across the face.

_"You do not stop until I tell you to stop."_

The soldier bites his lip, fear and stubbornness warring within him.  _"I am injured."_

_"That does not matter. You will ignore the pain. Hold out your hand."_

The soldier complies, holding out his flesh hand, the index finger slightly crooked. Lukin takes his middle finger and bends it backwards, meeting his eyes.

_"You disobeyed orders. This is a correction. You will not stop until I tell you to stop. If you do, there will be more corrections."_

He yanks backwards, the soldier's finger breaking with a crack. The soldier grits his teeth, holding in a cry. Lukin takes the ring finger, snapping it as well. The soldier emits a strangled sound. Finally Lukin snaps his pinky finger before stepping back, the soldier's hand throbbing with pain.

_"Continue."_

The agents step forwards, coming at the soldier. He blocks their strikes with the metal arm, right one held against him and jostling with every movement, the soldier gritting his teeth and fighting through the pain. He fights until he is barely standing, until the pain seems to go away as he retreats into his head, until new agents replace the old ones and the hours drag on.

_"Stop,"_ Lukin says.

The agents stop and the soldier sways, trembling with exhaustion. He falls to his knees heavily, breaths heaving and mind numb with pain. The agents leave and Lukin approaches, stopping by the soldier.

_"Get up."_

The soldier struggles to his feet. Lukin rolls up his sleeve, holding out his wrist. The soldier takes it gratefully, relief flowing through him as he sinks his fangs in and drinks. Lukin brushes a sweaty strand of hair away from his face with his other hand, the soldier relaxing slightly at the touch that seems so familiar.

_"Good,"_ Lukin says.  _"You did well, soldier. You must remember that you are not human. You are nothing more than a machine, and machines don't feel pain. You will ignore any pain you feel while completing orders. You are not allowed to react. Do you understand?"_

The soldier releases Lukin's wrist, licking over the wound before withdrawing.  _"Yes."_

_"Good. Now, go get cleaned up."_

The soldier turns and heads for the shower, fingers tingling as they heal.

***

They drag in a man and shove him to his knees, hands bound behind his back and mouth gagged. Lukin presses a gun into the soldier's hand.

_"Kill him."_

The soldier raises the gun, and then hesitates. The man is looking up at him fearfully, eyes wide.  _"Why?"_

_"Soldier, you do not question orders,"_ Lukin says warningly.  _"But this man is an enemy of Russia. You serve Russia."_

The soldier nods. He knows this. Something inside him remembers following orders, killing people, though he doesn't have the memories. But he thinks,  _serving your country,_ and it feels right. He thinks,  _protect,_ and it feels even more right. His finger wraps around the trigger and he fires. The man crumples to the ground.

***

It has been three weeks since the words, since the chair. There are strange flashes in his dreams, indistinct voices in his head, a strange ache in his chest. He tries to ignore them, to push them down, knowing without remembering that if he tells Lukin it will end in pain. 

They bring in another man, unbound. He has blonde hair and blue eyes, and something flares in the soldier's chest. 

_"Kill him,"_ Lukin says. The soldier strides forward, quickly knocking aside the man's defenses and wrapping a metal hand around his throat. The man chokes, blue eyes wide and terrified as they meet the soldier's. The soldier hesitates. 

_"Why?"_

_"You do not question me,"_ Lukin bites out.  _"You do not question orders. You will be corrected, but first, kill him."_

The soldier shudders. He does not want to be corrected. But something-something is wrong. This feels wrong. What had this man done? It is...not right, he thinks, to kill him here. Killing should be done on the battlefield, in war, not in cold blood. He doesn't know how he knows this but it feels right. And there is something...familiar about him. Something just on the edge of his memory. Flashes of blonde hair and blue eyes, a voice, words carried away by the wind, a hand reaching out-

"No."His chest hitches, something like tears pricking his eyes as he stares at the man. "No." He releases the man's throat, letting him slide to the ground as he gasps and wheezes, backing away in mounting horror.  _Protect,_ something says.  _Protect._ "No, I-I don't-no-" He realizes he is speaking in English but he can't make himself switch back to Russian. 

"I think it has been too long between wipes," Zola's voice says from the corner of the room. The soldier feels panic shoot through him at the voice, the voice he knows, that haunts his dreams- _Sergeant Barnes-_

"Indeed. Where is the doctor?"

"He is away at the moment. I shall attempt to summon him as soon as possible. It may be a few days." 

"Thank you, Dr. Zola. If you would prepare the chair, I will take it from here."

"Very well." Footsteps retreat from the room, the soldier still standing in the middle trembling as he glances around wildly.

_"Soldier. Come with me."_

The soldier feels cold anger wash over him. "No," he snarls, lip curled. 

_"Guards."_

Guards swarm him and he begins to fight, not holding back as in training. His body knows this, he thinks, and he snaps necks and crushes throats with the metal arm as he whirls and kicks. There's the crack of a gun and then blazing pain rips through his right leg, sending him crashing to the floor. He feels the bullet lodged in his thigh, hears the sizzling as it burns his flesh. Silver. 

Guards take the opportunity to snap silver cuffs around his wrists, locking them behind his back as they begin to drag him from the room. His leg gives out under him and fiery pain continues to pulse through it, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. They drag him to the correction room, shoving him face-first against the wall and undoing one cuff at a time to place his wrists into silver cuffs in the wall so his arms are above his head at shoulder width. The position makes his metal shoulder ache and he's forced to keep standing as the bullet burns his thigh, sending pain radiating through him. Hands grope at the wound, starting to dig the bullet out as the soldier bites down on a scream. Finally it comes out and the pain lessens slightly, the soldier panting and trembling with exertion. 

Hands find his head and wind fabric around his eyes, blocking his vision. Then there is the sound of ripping and his shirt is cut away, leaving his torso bare as panic spikes. He hears footsteps behind him and identifies Lukin by scent, shivers going through him as he braces for the correction sure to follow. 

_"I have become lax,"_ Lukin says.  _"I have allowed you too much freedom and let you ask questions. It is clear that I have not done enough to ensure your complete compliance. That is my fault, soldier. But do not worry, we will fix this flaw in your programming. There is a Hydra saying that I quite like. It says, 'order comes through pain.' I do not take pleasure in your pain, soldier, but it is necessary. You are too valuable for us to have any doubts about your compliance. Remember, you deserve this."_

The whistle of something through the air is all the warning he gets before the silver-tipped whip cuts into his back and his world explodes in agony.

***

His legs tremble under him, blindfolded face pressed to the wall and right arm shaking with strain. His back burns with fire, pulsing in time with the wound on his right thigh, his metal shoulder throbbing with a deep ache from the stress position. He doesn't know how long it has been since the whip stopped, since they left him here alone. Hunger claws at his insides but there is no relief, no one even in the room. He strains his senses but picks up nothing, the complete quiet and total darkness in his vision seeming oppressive as the hours drag on. His legs give out, making him hang from the cuffs, but the silver burns into his wrist and his arm and shoulders and back ache and throb and he has to put his weight on his legs again. A while later they give out again and he hangs for the cuffs for a while until they get unbearable and then stands, relieving his upper body but straining his lower. The cycle continues, over and over, trading one pain for another, the complete sensory darkness pressing in until he thinks he's going insane, nothing else existing except for pain and darkness. Quiet sobs occasionally slip out, the blindfold dampened with tears and sweaty hair sticking irritatingly to his forehead but the soldier unable to brush it away. 

The world blurs, his labored breaths the only sound he hears as the hours keep passing, the hunger clawing at him desperately and pain becoming a constant, background throb, numbness muting the edges of everything as he retreats into his head. He drifts off to sleep, eventually, waking with a jerk as his legs slip from under him and the silver cuts into his wrists. Every time he drifts off the jolting as he suspends from his wrists always wakes him, and sleep deprivation adds to the list of tortures as time keeps moving around him. He drifts in and out of awareness, time becoming meaningless as he retreats back into the safety of his mind and away from everything, thinking of nothing.

***

There are hands on him, undoing the cuffs as he collapses to the ground. The blindfold is taken off his face and he blinks as light enters his vision, squinting against the brightness after so long in the dark. Everything is blurry and voices swirl around him indistinctly, hands hauling his limp body up and slinging his arms around shoulders as he is dragged from the room. Lights flash in his vision between blinks and then he is being set down, sitting against something with head resting back on a headrest, cuffs snapping over his arms. There's a small pinch in his right arm and warmth begins to flood through him, his eyes slipping closed and a sigh escaping. The pain and coldness begin to wash away, body tingling all over and the clawing inside him quieting. Awareness returns and he opens his eyes, still squinting against even the dim light in the room. He's in the chair, IV in his arm and Lukin, Zola, and the doctor in front of him, watching him as they talk lowly in English.

"Remember doctor Fenhoff, we need a permanent directive, as you will not always be here and we cannot afford to do this every time. And if we are to use him sparingly over long stretches of time he may have to be passed on to new management."

"I will try my best," the doctor replies. "Remember, the hypnotic state can be broken and fade with time. It is important that the utmost control is exerted to keep him compliant. I am not a fan of violence, but I understand its necessity."

"I agree," Zola interjects. "Given his advanced healing, the effects of the wipes will wear off after a while and his memories will return. It would be prudent to implement wipes every few weeks he is awake with more as needed if he becomes unstable. Perhaps even to simply wipe him each time he comes out of cryofreeze, when he is weak. Also, the more blood he is given, the faster he will heal. You must find a balance between functionality and hunger. "

"Thank you, Dr. Zola. Your work has been invaluable to the project. I do wish you could stay longer."

"As do I, but unfortunately I must keep my cover with the Americans. Hydra is growing within their ranks and around the world. I am grateful to you for sparking the association between Russia and Hydra. I believe we will accomplish great things together."

"As do I. Alright, shall we begin?" Lukin turns, meeting the soldier's eyes.  _"Good morning, soldier._ _Are you ready to comply?"_

He nods heavily, swallowing.  _"Yes."_ His voice is little more than a croak, the barest whisper of air through his lips.

_"Good. Dr. Fenhoff?"_

The doctor steps forward, spinning his ring.  _"Now, focus on me, soldier. Focus."_

Everything goes quiet and blank, peaceful numbness at the edges of everything.

_"Good. Now, you remember the words?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Good. Every time you hear them you will remember as before, but you will also remember all of your training and corrections each time. Each new training and correction between wipes will stay permanently, as well as relevant knowledge about the world and your missions. Only what you need to be functional will stay, nothing else. You will never question orders, or fight back. You will only comply without hesitation. This is all you will know when you hear the words. You will obey whoever says the words. Now, I need you to wake up."_

The doctor snaps his fingers. The soldier blinks awake, staring ahead blankly. There is whirring above his head but he does not move. There will always be pain, he thinks. He does not fight it anymore. He can't. The metal clamps over his face and he is almost glad as the world whites out again.

***

The metal releases his face and he jerks, breaths heaving.

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

With each word blankness takes hold, knowledge slotting into place and his breaths slowing. The memories of darkness and pain press at him, sinking him into complete stillness, complete obedience, something dead and cold inside but something else small and helpless, screaming in pain and fear, trapped within his mind. It is desperate. It remembers. It begs him to  _comply._ His eyes flick to Lukin.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

***

Lukin opens the door of his cell, the soldier standing at attention.  _"Good morning, soldier. I have a mission for you."_ He holds out a file and the soldier takes it, beginning to read.  _"You are being loaned out to the KGB. The target is a dissident who would bring down Russian government. Eliminate him. Do not be seen. Understood?"_

He closes the file, the information memorized. _"Yes."_

He is given tactical pants, boots, and a jacket with only one sleeve, the metal arm on full display and straps crossing over his chest. Weapons are strapped in every available place, a sniper rifle pressed into his hands. A mask is fitted over his face, filtering air so that no smells reach his nose, helping to dull the hunger that prods at him slightly.

_"To keep you from getting distracted by the smell of blood,"_ Lukin says. The soldier accepts this. Black paint is smeared around his eyes to keep the sun from blinding him, a glove on the metal hand to help him grip.

He is driven to a location and given details on where his mission is and his extraction point. He melts into the shadows like he has been trained, completely silent and moving with unnatural grace, people's eyes sliding past him without seeing him. He picks a rooftop with good sight lines and trains his rifle on the open window, shadows moving indistinctly. The target steps into view, the soldier's enhanced eyes identifying him easily. He calculates the shot, breathes, and fires. The man crumples to the floor, a hole through his head. There is a scream, a woman coming into view as she kneels down next to the man, hands fluttering helplessly as she sobs and shakes with fear and disbelief. The soldier feels something tug at him, a wrongness, but ignores it, picking up his rifle and melting back into the shadows as he makes his way back to the extraction point. He climbs into the car and they make the drive back to the base, the soldier staring blankly into the middle-distance.

Lukin greets him with an expectant look, taking off the soldier's mask.  _"Mission report."_

_"Target eliminated. No witnesses."_

Lukin smiles, relieved.  _"Good job, soldier. Get cleaned up and you may rest and feed."_

It takes extra time in the shower to wash off the black paint around his eyes. He ignores the scars on his body, now, used to them. There are long, raised scars on his back now that he can feel when he scrubs there, though he doesn't know what they look like, and criss-crossing scars on the soles of his feet. The scars on his wrist and ankles are more pronounced now than before, layers upon layers of shallow burns piling up. He doesn't linger, only taking enough time to get clean and shave his face in the small mirror on the wall. His hair is curling over his ears, he notices with detachment. After he is done he accepts the folded clothes given to him, pulling on the plain pants and shirt before being escorted to the room with the chamber. Lukin steps in, rolling up his sleeve.

_"Soldier, do you feel a connection to me?"_

The soldier blinks, unsure what Lukin is asking.  _"No?"_

Lukin frowns.  _"You have only been fed my blood for months, since you were created, and yet you still feel no connection."_ He looks frustrated.  _"It does not make sense."_ He rubs his head.  _"I will have to ask Zola. For now, we will keep trying."_ He extends his wrist to the soldier.  _"You may feed."_

The soldier doesn't know what he is talking about but thinks he is not expected to. He sinks his fangs in, relishing the relief from the hunger that has been nagging at him. 

_"Stop."_

The soldier reluctantly stops, sealing the wound. He is not yet satiated, the hunger only dulled to a quiet twinge, but he cannot disobey orders. Lukin rolls his sleeve back down, nodding in approval. 

_"You have done well. You have proved your usefulness in the field, and the KGB is very impressed. I expect to work closely with them in the future. For now, you will be put in stasis until the next mission."_

Guards come and lead him over to the chamber, strapping him in and inserting the IV, the flow stopped. The door closes over him and he watches through the window as technicians fiddle with controls until ice creeps up his body and he sinks into peaceful darkness.

***

Warmth flows through him and he takes a ragged breath, limbs tingling and burning. There's a clank and a hiss signaling the chamber door is opening, hands reaching in to undo the straps and IV and drag him out. He's settled in the chair, cuffs snapping over his arms as he starts to come back to awareness and the IV re-inserted. Fingers pry open his eyes and light shines in his vision, making him blink in muddled confusion. Then there's whirring over his head and metal clamps around his face, electricity spiking through his head as he screams. It lasts a minute and then releases him with a jerk, the sound of footsteps circling around him.

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

His vision clears and his breathing slows, clarity returning. He knows where he is. He knows what he is. His eyes snap to Lukin's, waiting. Lukin closes a red book with a star, placing it on a table.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_  

_"It is April 1, 1956. I have a mission for you."_ The cuffs release the soldier and Lukin passes him a file.  _"Memorize this."_

He does as instructed, eyes flicking over the information. When he's done he hands it back, waiting.

_"Good."_ Lukin turns to the technicians.  _"Prep him."_

He is showered and dressed in tactical gear and then they board a small plane, flying to Algeria. The target is French Defense Minister Jacques Dupuy. The soldier is to eliminate him with prejudice and implicate the Algerian Nationalist Movement. The plane drops him off and a car takes him into the city, the agents telling him his extraction point and getting him as close as possible to the target's location. He finds the Minister in his home. He takes out the guards and breaks in, taking care to be purposefully sloppy and leave evidence of multiple people, no feats of superhuman strength. The man cowers against the wall as he approaches, hands raised. 

"ruja'. raja'in. sa'afeal kla ma taraydu. laday eayilat. raja'in," he pleads. The soldier ignores him, dragging him from the corner and striking him with his flesh hand to simulate a beating before withdrawing a gun and shooting him between the eyes. He leaves him where he lies, draping the flag of the Algerian Nationalist Movement over his body. Then he is disappearing as sirens approach, weaving his way back through the city and to the extraction point. The car takes him to the plane and they fly back to Russia, technicians divesting him of his tactical gear and shoving him in the chamber, black paint still on his face.

_***_

He is pulled out of the chamber as soon as he is awake and dressed in tac gear, mask fitted over his face and black paint still in place. They do not bother with the chair and words. It has only been a day since the last wipe, for him. 

_"Good morning, soldier. It is May 12, 1956. I have a mission for you. You are to destroy an Algerian Peace Conference Envoy."_ The file is handed over and the soldier memorizes it before handing it back.

They fly to Paris, driving the soldier to the outskirts of the city as the lights twinkle in the darkness. The soldier slips past guards and plants explosives on the car, finding a safe place to hide as he waits. When morning comes and all the targets are in the car and moving he triggers the explosives, slipping away in the ensuing chaos. He makes it back to the extraction point and they drive to the plane before flying back to Russia.

_"Mission report,"_ Lukin orders.

_"All targets eliminated."_

_"Good job, soldier."_

He is showered and fed before being led back to cryo, closing his eyes and falling into nothingness.

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

He breathes, coming back to awareness.His eyes flick to Lukin,who looks slightly older, a few more streaks of grey in his hair. Lukin snaps the red book shut, setting it down.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1960. I have a mission for you. KGB. No witnesses."_

The file is handed over and he memorizes it before passing it back. He is driven out and dropped off with his extraction location, blending into the shadows as he approaches the house. It is a large house, its owner clearly wealthy. He is a Russian diplomat who has leaked information to the United States, threatening national security. He is to be eliminated, a message sent. A warning to others.

The soldier slips around the guards and scales the side of the house swiftly, breaking the lock of a window with his metal hand and slipping inside. It is dark, a full moon shining overhead and reflecting off the still waters of the swimming pool in the backyard, a chill in the air the soldier does not feel. He is in a bedroom, a figure sleeping soundly in the ornate bed that dominates the room. The soldier moves forward on silent feet, stopping next to the bed before he leans down and wraps the metal hand around his throat, the other hand covering his mouth to stifle any cry. The man jerks awake, eyes going wide as he struggles in the soldier's grip, body thrashing against the bed. As soon as he is assured the man cannot cry out the soldier's flesh hand moves to pin his body down, ensuring no one hears anything. The man chokes and wheezes silently, face turning purple, before he finally falls limp. The soldier presses flesh fingers to his throat, feeling the absence of a pulse. Satisfied, he leaves as silently as he came, slipping out through the window and melting into the shadows as he evades the guards and makes his way back to the extraction point, mind blank and focused. 

The guards drive him back to base, where Lukin greets him.

_"Mission report."_

_"Target eliminated. No witnesses."_

_"Good job, soldier. You will be returned to stasis until your next mission."_

He is divested of his tac gear, showered and shaved, and then led to the cryo chamber again. 

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

He breathes. Lukin snaps the book shut.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1962. I have a mission for you. Cuba."_

He is flown to Cuba. He shoots down a plane, the new weapons making something almost fascinated spark in his mind. He is flown back and put back into cryo.

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

He breathes. Lukin snaps the book shut.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1963. I have a mission for you. America. Dallas, Texas."_ The file is passed over.  _"Target: John F. Kennedy, United States President. No one is to know you are there, and another gunman will take the fall."_

He memorizes it and hands it back.

_"Prep him."_

He's prepped and put on a plane, landing near Dallas. Then he's driven into the city and finds a perch up high, sniper rifle in front of him. The procession comes down the street, the target waving from the open car. He is an American president, and his death will be a great blow to them. The soldier lines up the shot and fires three times, intentionally sloppy, hitting the target in the head and injuring another man. He immediately takes off, moving with superhuman speed and stealth as he makes his way to the Texas School Depository Building where he plants evidence. The man who is to take the fall, Lee Harvey Oswald, has already been coerced by Hydra and his death is arranged, to be shot by a Jack Ruby who has been coerced as well, the threat of the soldier hanging over his head. The soldier makes his way back to the extraction point and they drive to the plane, returning to Russia. 

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

He breathes. Lukin snaps the book shut.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1968. I have a mission for you. America. Tennessee."_ The file is passed over.  _"Martin Luther King, Jr. Civil Rights activist. You are to plant evidence implicating another man. No one is to know you are there."_

He is prepped and flown out, slipping into the rooming house opposite the Lorraine Motel. He waits until the target steps onto the balcony and then fires. The target crumples and the soldier flees, dumping a package with a rifle and binoculars with someone else's fingerprints on them. He makes his way to the extraction point and they return to Russia, the soldier debriefed and led to cryo.

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

He breathes. Lukin snaps the book shut.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1968. I have a mission for you. America. Los Angeles."_ The file is passed over.  _"Robert F. Kennedy, United States Senator. There will be another gunman who will take the fall. No one is to know you are there."_

He is prepped and flown out, slipping into the Ambassador Hotel and finding the target, following silently. The target enters the kitchen and the soldier positions himself so he is aiming at the target's back but out of sight, waiting for his cue. The man, Sirhan, steps forwards and raises his gun at the target, firing wildly and hitting others. The soldier fires one shot to the target's back, fatally wounding him, before slipping away. Sirhan will not talk, the threat of Hydra and the soldier great enough to ensure silence.

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

He breathes. Lukin snaps the book shut. He looks older still.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1973. I have a mission for you. America. Massachusetts. Senator Harry Baxtor. The death must look accidental."_

The soldier leaves the man floating face-down in his swimming pool, no sign that he has been murdered. He makes his way back to the extraction point but something stops him, something that makes him press a hand to his chest. There is a man being beaten up in an alley, shapes indistinguishable to anyone else in the darkness but clear as day to the soldier. The man is small and slight, with floppy blonde hair that falls over his forehead and grim determination on his bloodied face as he stares down his attackers, fists raised. The soldier finds his feet moving as the attackers move in, finds himself appearing, ghostlike, behind them and grabbing one's arm, shoving him away and throwing a punch at his face. The other comes at him and he quickly counters the strike, the man's fighting almost laughable compared to the soldier. 

"What the hell...?" the attacker breathes, stumbling backwards as he stares at the soldier, eyes flitting between the mask and the metal arm. The soldier takes a step forward and he runs, dragging the other with him until they disappear into the darkness. The soldier turns to the small man, feeling off-balance but somehow right, something on the tip of his tongue. The man stares back, blinking owlishly as he takes in the soldier.

"Who the hell are you?"

The soldier opens his mouth slightly behind the mask but finds he has no answer. He takes a step back, confused. What is he doing? This isn't the mission. He can't have witnesses.

The man eyes him warily. "I guess I should say thank you, but, uh, gotta be honest you're making me a little nervous, pal."

Pal. Pal.  _Pal._ Why does he-why does he know that? What is he doing? He takes another step back. The man looks...familiar, he thinks. There is something about him, something that makes him think of bloody knuckles and blue eyes, of slender hands and cigarette smoke, but he doesn't know why, it doesn't make sense- 

The soldier takes another step back, then another, sinking into the shadows. Then he slips away, the man's voice calling after him.

"Hey, where'd you go?"

He rips off his mask, inhaling the unfiltered air as scents flood his nose. He moves down the street, sticking to the shadows, head pounding and something tugging at him, an ache in his chest. He thinks of tall buildings and twinkling lights and his mind supplies a location:  _New York City._ He doesn't know why, has no memories of being there, but he knows he has to go. 

There's a clothing store on the street and he breaks in, quickly stripping his tac gear and pulling on the first pants that fit him along with a jacket over his black shirt, shoving as many knives and guns as he can carry back under his clothes. He scrubs a hand over the paint around his eyes, attempting to wipe it away, and rips open the register and takes some money. Then he sets back out onto the street, metal hand shoved into his jacket pocket. He wanders until he sees a bus station, only a couple people around in the early hours of the morning. An older woman squints at him and pats the bench beside her, knitted finger gloves on her hands. The soldier follows the silent order, sliding onto the bench silently and keeping his head ducked. His hair falls past his ears now, strands falling over his cheekbones. 

"Where are you going, hon?" the woman asks.

"New York," he rasps.

"Ah. You're waiting on the six o'clock, then?"

He shifts, mind quickly making the deduction that she's talking about the buses and that there's one to New York at six, valuable information. He nods. "Yes." Something nudges at his mind and he opens his mouth again. "You?"

"The same. Going to visit my granddaughter. You?"

He swallows. "I don't know."

He sees her give him a critical glance from the corner of his eye. "Running from something?"

He stiffens, hand clutching the knife in his pocket. The woman just nods serenely. 

"Yeah, you're running, alright. Don't worry, I won't ask. Though here-" the woman reaches in her bag as the soldier tenses, ready for a fight, but she only withdraws a handkerchief, holding it out. "If you want to wipe off your face. You've got a little something around your eyes."

The soldier takes the handkerchief, scrubbing at his face. The woman squints at him as he lowers it. 

"You still got some. Would you mind if I-?"

The soldier blinks and holds out the handkerchief. The woman takes it and raises it to his face, tilting his chin with a hand as she begins to carefully clean around his eyes. 

"Close your eyes," she murmurs. 

The soldier closes his eyes, used to the technicians putting the eye paint on and holding still as she swipes over his eyelids with more gentleness than the techs ever show. Finally she lets go of his chin and he opens his eyes to see her nodding.

"You're all good." She hesitates, cocking her head and frowning as she studies him. "You look familiar. Have we met before?"

He blinks. "No." Not that he can remember. 

"Hmm." She shakes her head. "Sorry. I don't know. You just seem so familiar. My memory isn't what it used to be."

_Me neither,_ a voice inside his head whispers. 

A bus pulls up to the station, brakes squealing and hissing as the doors open. The woman stands up.

"This is us."

He follows her on, dropping a bill into the box at the front and settling in the seat at the back of the bus, some of the others already filled with sleeping occupants. The bus starts with a lurch, the soldier staying alert in his seat as he scans the bus for hostiles. The bus trundles on for a few hours as dawn breaks, the city coming into view and taking his breath away. As he departs the bus the woman catches his eye, stopping next to him.

"You know where you're going, son?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"You going to be okay?"

He swallows. "I don't know."

She studies him for a moment, then reaches into her purse and takes his hand, pressing something into it. It's a few bills."Take it," she says. "It's all I can offer you, but I hope it helps."

He blinks, stunned by this small act of kindness. "Thank you," he says, the words dredged up from somewhere in distant memory.

She smiles. "You're welcome. Oh, I realized I never introduced myself. My name is Ruth Brown. What's yours?"

The soldier swallows, taking a small step back, anxiety spiking.  _He doesn't have a name._ But that-that seems wrong, everything seems wrong, there are too many people jostling him as they walk by and everything is too loud and too bright and the smells hit his nose, no longer filtered through the mask, and they are familiar and overwhelming and something tugs at him, says  _remember-_

"Are you alright?"

He takes another step back, gaze flicking back to hers as his breath hitches. Her eyes are warm and concerned in her lined face, grey hair spilling around it. 

"I don't-I don't have a name," he says. He takes another step back, breathing shakily. "No, that's not-I don't-I don't know, I don't remember-"

He turns and flees, blending into the crowd without looking back.

 


	10. Chapter 10

He moves through the crowds, head ducked and metal hand firmly tucked into his jacket pocket, following the strange tug under his breastbone. He walks for hours until he sees the Brooklyn Bridge, stopping as the breath punches out of him. People push past him, annoyed, but he can only stand and stare, something familiar sparking in his mind, something that whispers  _home._ He crosses it just as the sun is setting, the last rays of sunlight glinting off the water and painting the city skyline in soft colors, the soldier blinking in wonder at the beauty. Then he keeps moving, searching for something but he doesn't know what, scanning the buildings around him. As he moves deeper into Brooklyn familiarity sparks slightly but it's not quite right, and he keeps expecting buildings to be there when they aren't and sees flashes of things he doesn't understand, the clothes people are wearing wrong and everything wrong and his head pounds in time with his steps, making everything confusing and overwhelming. As darkness falls he moves into the rougher parts of Brooklyn, sticking to the shadows. When exhaustion overtakes him and his head is swirling and pounding incessantly he finds a dark alley and curls up, pressing back against the brick as rain begins to fall.

***

By morning he's up and wandering again, making his way all the way down the Island before circling back in frustration, everything so distantly familiar but not quite right, his head pounding worse than ever and hunger starting to claw at him. He winds up back near where he started, where the buildings are taller and completely unfamiliar. He heads into the rougher area around nightfall, abandoned buildings falling down and people sleeping on the streets, the scents of sweat and drugs overpowering. The soldier finds an abandoned building and slips inside, a few other people huddled around a small fire in the center. They pay him no attention and he curls up again in the corner, watching them with sharp eyes until they fall asleep and he lets his guard down enough to drift off as well. 

***

He wakes abruptly to talking and laughter, the smell of cigarette smoke in the air. He unfolds from the corner and gets to his feet smoothly, seeing a group of people still sitting around the barrel in the center of the building and smoking. The smell makes something familiar prick at his memory, the feel of something between his lips and the taste of tobacco in his mouth. One of the people sees him and jerks his head, calling over to him.

"Hey man, you alright over there? Haven't seen you around these parts before." He holds up a cigarette. "Want one?"

The soldier moves closer, taking the proffered cigarette and bringing it to his lips. There's the click of a lighter and he leans closer on instinct, letting the cigarette catch before drawing an inhale and removing it as he exhales a plume of smoke, the motions making something settle inside him. The man pats the floor next to him, scooting over to make room as the soldier complies and settles down next to him, legs crossed and metal hand tucked securely into his pocket. The circle of people are watching him, their clothes strange and gaudy and hair rivaling his it its wildness. The man next to him takes a drag of his cigarette before speaking.

"So, who are you? As I said, I've never seen you around here before, and we know everyone on these streets." His eyes are sharp and assessing as he rakes them over the soldier, a slight wariness to his gaze.

The soldier dredges up the words from somewhere, mind spinning at a million miles an hour as he calculates appropriate social interaction and responses based on knowledge and observation. "Just passing through," he says finally.

"Alright, well, I'm Mark. This here's Paul, George, Danny, Janice, Rob, and Beverly." Mark points to each person as he names them and the soldier files this information away, names committed to memory. "You got a name, stranger?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Mark raises his hands. "Alright, won't ask. As long as you don't bring trouble 'round here we're cool." He studies the soldier. "You look like a Jim, so that's what we'll call you."

The soldier swallows, the name feeling almost familiar but not quite right, something on the edge of his memory. He has been given a name, and it makes something inside him flare. He has a  _name._

They smoke and the people resume their chatter, the soldier staying silent but observing their conversation intently, fascinated. 

"And this fucking war," Mark is saying. "It's not right."

The soldier stiffens. "War?" He racks his memory. War, war...he thinks there was a war but he doesn't know.

Mark narrows his eyes at him. "Yeah. What about it?" He frowns, studying the soldier. "You're not one of those people who support the war, are you?"

The soldier slowly shakes his head. He isn't, he thinks. Something in him  _hates war._ "No."

Mark nods, satisfied. "Good. Bunch of bullshit, I say. Fucking government. Fucking army."

"My dad was a soldier," Beverly says. "Fought in the second world war. But that war, I agree with. Killing Nazis is fine by me. This war, not so much."

Something is tugging at the soldier, some knowledge just out of reach. "I'm a soldier," he murmurs softly, frowning in confusion. He's a soldier, but what is his war?

The people stare at him. "You're a soldier?" Rob questions. "Jesus Christ. You were actually in 'Nam?"

The soldier shakes his head, confused. "No-no, I-I don't know. I...Russia."

"Russia? Oh, damn. Were you like a spy or some shit?" Danny asks.

He frowns. "No, I am a soldier."

"I didn't know we had soldiers over in Russia. The whole thing's so secret, anyhow, and with everyone accusin' everyone of bein' a Communist." Mark takes a drag of his cigarette, squinting at the soldier. "You look like you've seen some shit."

The soldier does not know how to answer this, is confused by what they mean about having soldiers over in Russia, but he thinks he has seen some shit. "Yes," he says.

"Did you kill anyone?" Beverly asks.

"Bev!" George admonishes. "You can't ask that!"

"Yes," the soldier replies.

There's a moment of silence. "How long you been out?" Mark asks.

He counts. "Three days."

The people stare at him. "Three fucking days?" Mark repeats incredulously. "No offense, but you look like shit. You don't have anywhere to go?"

"No."

Danny raises his cigarette. "Fucking government. Send people to get killed and then just cut 'em loose when they get home."

They all nod, giving him sympathetic looks. The soldier doesn't know what they're talking about but stays silent.

"Well hell, you can stay with us," Mark says. "We've got your back."

The soldier dredges up the acceptable response, something warm in his chest. "Thank you."

At some point the people leave to get food and clean up, the soldier coming with. They show him the best place to wash up and get food, and he gives them the money in his pocket to incredulous stares. He doesn't need the food and he doesn't remember eating, the others not noticing that he doesn't actually eat anything. He keeps his head ducked and his metal hand in his pocket, staying unobtrusive and out of view of security cameras, knowing how from previous missions. The group spreads themselves out on street corners, cans in hand that passersby drop coins into. The soldier sits near Mark, who teaches him how to panhandle the best. At the end of the day they regroup and count their money, buying a meal and heading back to the building. They light a small fire and sit around smoking until it gets late and they retire to piles of blankets and a couple mattresses and ragged couches they've scrounged, the inside of the building an eclectic mix of salvaged objects. The soldier retreats to a corner with good lines of sight, accepting a ragged blanket and only falling asleep once the others have.  

***

By the next day the hunger is pressing at him insistently, coldness creeping over everything. He feels sluggish and drained, mouth watering at the constant stream of people all around him, warm blood pulsing under thin flesh. His head aches as well, the sights and sounds and smells triggering flashes of indistinct memory, voices warped and distorted and as if through a fog, and the harder he reaches for the memories the faster they slip away, melting into nothingness. 

He reaches out, plucking the cigarette from the package in Danny's hand. Suddenly silence falls and he feels eyes on him, tensing up instinctively.

"Jim. Your wrist..." Bev breathes. 

The soldier blinks, holding up his wrist. He only sees the scars wrapped around it, twisted and deep, but he's not sure why everyone is staring at them. He puts the cigarette in his mouth, frowning. "What?"

"Those are some...fucking scars," Mark says. "You don't get those from simple handcuffs. You get captured or something? In Russia?"

He studies his wrist, thinking of silver cuffs and sharp knives cutting into his skin, cloth tied around his eyes. "Yes." He thinks he was, thinks he has never been a willing participant. Thinks that they have made him do things, bad things. That they have stolen his memories.

"Russian bastards," Danny mutters. "That why you got something wrong with your left arm, too? Noticed you never use it, not for anything."

The soldier stiffens, metal hand clenching into a fist in his pocket. He remembers needles and Zola's face swimming over him, the metal hand wrapped around a doctor's throat. "Yes."

"That's rough."

They sit in silence for a while until they drift off to their respective sleeping places, the mood somber. The soldier lays awake, mind whirling with thoughts. He was captured, he thinks. He was a prisoner. He knows this deep in his soul.  _He was a prisoner._ They had lied to him. They had lied to him and hurt him and taken his memories away with the chair and made him do things. Bad things. He thinks maybe he is a person. He is not human, something tells him this, but he is not a machine. He is not even sure he is Russian. He thinks of a rickety fire escape and the scent of cigarette smoke, his real left shoulder pressed to a smaller one. He thinks of blonde hair and blue eyes and an ache in his chest, and he thinks  _home._

***

The soldier has just drifted off to sleep when he jerks awake, sensing multiple people outside. The fire is still burning, illuminating the room, and his vision allows him to see clearly in the dark as shadows flicker by the doorway. He knows suddenly, with an icy feeling, that they have found him. He's surrounded. He lurches to his feet, stripping off his jacket to reveal the metal arm. He sways, slightly unsteady with hunger, as men burst through the doors and surround him, guns raised, the people waking up in confusion. The agents are dressed as policemen but the soldier knows better, knows they are Hydra.

"Stand down," one says, gun trained on him.

The soldier snarls, the plates of the metal arm rippling in preparation for a fight. There's a moment of silence and then he erupts into motion, lunging towards one of the agents and dragging him in front of him to use as a human shield as a few shots sound off. He knows they won't kill him and uses it to his advantage, engaging the agents head on. He is weak and hungry and outnumbered but still more than a match for them, crushing throats with the metal hand and dodging blows. A shot rings out and burning pain rips through his thigh, sending him to his knees, the silver bullet sizzling into his skin.

"Soldat, stand down."

He is shaking, every cell screaming for him to get away, to not let them take him. He meets their eyes and brings his flesh hand to his thigh, digging the bullet out without breaking eye contact, barely feeling the pain. He sees the people behind the agents, all clustered together and watching with wide eyes, a few agents with guns trained on them. The agent's eyes widen as the bloody bullet clinks to the floor, the soldier baring his teeth. He pushes himself to his feet and lunges before another bullet rips through his right shoulder and another through his side, the soldier gritting his teeth against the pain. He takes one agent out, swinging wildly with the metal arm and staggering, but more hands grab him as he thrashes and struggles, panic taking over.

"No! No, I don't-I'm not going back, no, no no no no no-"

He lashes out with the metal arm, sending one flying, but more replace him and wrench his arms behind his back, locking silver cuffs around his wrists. 

"Soldat, stand down," an agent repeats. 

"No!" he screams, panic coursing through him and breaths heaving as he struggles. "No, you-you lied, I-I'm not Russian, I'm not, I'm an American, you lied, You-you took it away, I remember, I remembered and you took it away, I'm not-I won't-"

"Someone shut him up, for god's sake."

" _This_ is the Winter Soldier?"

"Yeah, when they haven't scrambled his brains in a while."

A hand digs into the bullet wound on his shoulder, making him scream.

"Stop fighting."

He snarls. "No."

"Come on, get him up."

Hands drag him to his feet, injured leg giving out. 

"He escaped from an asylum," one of the agents says a ways away, speaking to the people. "He's extremely dangerous. You're lucky to escape with your lives."

"Why don't I believe that?"

"Listen here, you're going to forget all about this and go on with your miserable lives if you know what's good for you."

"And if we don't?"

"I don't think you want to find out. And look at you, a bunch of degenerates begging for scraps on the street. Who'd believe you anyway?"

The agents begin to drag him across the room, past the people, and he feels the fight drain out of him to be replaced by crushing, desperate hopelessness, a hole in his chest that hurts worse than any of the bullets.

"No," he sobs, "No, I don't want to go back, please, I don't want to, I  _remember,_ they lied to me, it was  _wrong,_ I don't want-please, I want it to stop, make it stop, please, I want to go _home-_

"Yeah, you're going home alright," an agent says, hand digging into his shoulder painfully. "Gonna take you right back to Russia and they'll fix this fucking mess."

_"No,_ it's not-no, I don't want it, it's not home, you're lying, I'm American, I have a  _name,_  I'm from-I'm from Brooklyn, I- _Steve,_ I knew him, he's-he's-"

"He's no one. Be quiet."

"No, he's-he's someone, I knew him, I remember, he's-he's coming for me, he is, he'll come for me-"

"No one's coming for you, soldier. Now shut up and get in the car."

He's shoved into a police car, falling onto his side with hands shoved behind his back and wounds bleeding sluggishly onto the seats. Two agents slide into the front seats and start the car, pulling away with others following them. The soldier presses his face into the seat and feels tears spill down his cheeks, the bullets burning into him and the world spinning, hunger clawing at him insistently and body going limp. Hopelessness crushes him and he feels himself retreating into his head, everything going numb and quiet.

***

Rough hands drag him out of the car and strap him down to a stretcher, loading him into a plane. He stares upwards blankly, not even flinching as they dig out the bullets from his shoulder and side, filled with resignation. They will always find him. They will never let him go. There will be pain, and the chair, and this too will be taken from him. 

The flight takes hours, the soldier getting weaker and weaker and the hunger intensifying until it consumes every thought. Voices swirl around him, the agents talking over his head without caring what he hears, often about him. He tunes them out, drifting off into his head again. It doesn't matter. They will take this.

The plane lands. The stretcher is loaded into a van and driven to the base, agents carrying him inside and the soldier taking one last glimpse of the sky before it disappears. One last glimpse of freedom.  

Lukin's voice sounds, the soldier identifying him by smell. "Where was he?"

"Some building in New York, with some fucking homeless people. Hippies. No idea. Didn't come quietly, that's for sure."

Lukin sighs. "I'll take it from here. Thank you for your help."

The agents retreat and Lukin steps up next to the stretcher, face swimming in the soldier's vision.  _"Soldier. Explain yourself."_

The soldier tightens his jaw and doesn't reply, staring stubbornly up at the familiar ceiling.

_"Very well. You deliberately disobeyed orders and strayed from your mission. You know what this means. We cannot let this happen again."_

The soldier swallows. With a nod from Lukin guards take the stretcher to the correction room, inserting a needle filled with blood into his right arm. The relief flows through him, eyes slipping closed and body relaxing.

_"Just enough to make him stable,"_ Lukin says.  _"No more."_

The needle is withdrawn, the loss making the soldier emit a pained sound as his eyes fly open. Then silver glints in his vision and Lukin steps up to his feet with a knife, grasping his cuffed ankles.

_"Explain yourself."_

The soldier grits his teeth. "You-you lied, this isn't right, I'm not-I'm not Russian, I'm American, I remember, you took it away but I remember. This is wrong, I don't-I don't know, this is wrong, you lied-"

_"I have not lied to you, soldier. It is your mind that lies to you. You know this. There is a flaw in your programming."_

He shakes his head. "No.  _No._ I know this-I know, you're lying, this is wrong, I have-I have a name and I remember, I remember  _Steve,_ I knew him, you took it away-"

_"You do not have a name. Steve is no one. You are malfunctioning. We only take away the confusion. Don't worry, we will fix you. But unfortunately, you must be corrected first. Even if you are confused, you must never try to escape or fight back. You must tell us, and we will fix you. You need the correction to remember this after the wipe."_

The soldier bites his lip, head pounding. He wants-he wants to believe Lukin, and it makes sense, but something inside him tells him that this is  _wrong._ He doesn't know why, but it is. It is all he has. He knows that this is wrong, and he knows a name: Steve. 

Lukin's grip tightens on his ankle as he brings down the knife to the sole of his foot.  _"Remember, you deserve this."_

Then he makes the first cut, and the world is consumed by pain.

***

When Lukin finishes slashing his feet open he is strung up in the middle of the room with his arms over his head, wrist cuffed together and suspended from a chain, the position pulling at the gunshot wound in his right shoulder and making the metal shoulder ache. The pressure of standing on his feet is agonizing and makes him rest his weight on his arms, but the silver cuffs cut into his wrist and his shoulders burn with fire and he has to put weight on his feet again, panting and trembling. A blindfold is wound around his eyes, blocking out his vision, and he is left completely alone. He alternates between putting his weight on his arms and on his feet, each as painful as the other, muscles trembling and body slick with sweat, running down into the blindfold and making strands of hair stick to his neck irritatingly. Time warps and drags by, nothing to break the monotony of pain and darkness. He eventually slips into sleep but wakes when his legs give out under him and he hangs by his wrists, fire coursing through his shoulders and back muscles starting to ache with the strain. He is hungry, so hungry, but no one comes and the hours drag by in a haze of pain and exhaustion and hunger. He wonders if he is dying, but then he thinks that they will not let him die. He wishes he could die.

He thinks it has been days, now. He's not sure. Time is meaningless. He's given up trying to stand. He hangs by his wrists limply, chin almost touching his chest. He's not sure he feels the pain anymore. He's not sure he remembers what it's like not to be in pain. He's not sure of anything, anymore. Everything is fuzzy and muted and he is not here, he is not in his body. His body is not his own. He's sure of this. He slips into unconsciousness at some point, exhaling in relief.

***

There are hands on him, undoing the cuffs and the blindfold. He crumples to the ground, eyes fluttering open weakly as everything blurs around him. Hands haul him up, slinging his arms over shoulders and dragging him from the room as he squints against the lights that flash by, bloodied feet trailing on the ground. They deposit him in the chair, cuffs snapping over his arms and an IV inserted as blessed relief flows through him and he groans, head lolling limply against the headrest and eyes slipping closed again. 

_"Soldier."_

Exhaustion is pulling him down, his head spinning and body tingling as the warmth rushes through him.

_"Soldier."_

A hand cracks against his face and he struggles to open his eyes, squinting against the light as Lukin's face resolves in his vision. 

_"Are you ready to comply?"_

He nods heavily, mind foggy but remembering pain, and the small, terrified part of him still cognizant screams _comply_.  _"Yes,"_ he tries to say, but nothing comes out. 

_"Good. You will be fixed and then put into stasis."_

He blinks heavily as the whirring starts over his head, and he is almost relieved when the metal clamps down over his face. He doesn't want to remember. Remembering means pain. He will be fixed and the pain will stop.

***

The metal clamps release him and he jerks, breaths heaving.

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

His mind calms and grows quiet. He is the soldier. He serves Russia and Hydra. He had malfunctioned and disobeyed orders and was corrected. He will not do it again. Something small and helpless inside him screams. He will not do it again. He will comply.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

 Lukin smiles.  _"Good. Clean up and then you may rest, soldier. You are being decommissioned for now, until we can find a use for you. It seems you cannot be trusted to work in America."_

The soldier does not respond. He is not expected to. The cuffs release him and guards help him from the room, his legs shaking under him. He showers and shaves with clinical efficiency, noting new gunshot scars on his thigh, side, and right shoulder and new knife scars on his feet, the scars around his right wrist thickened. He remembers darkness and pain and shudders, sinking back into blankness. He will comply. 

 When he is clean and dressed in skintight pants and a vest that are made of meshed fabric he is lead to the cryo chamber and strapped inside. He welcomes the cold, the escape from the memories of pain and darkness. He sinks into blissful nothingness, mind blank.

***

Warmth flows through him and he draws a gasping breath, lungs expanding. His limbs tingle and a hiss and clank signal the chamber is opening, voices swirling around him. He comes back to awareness slowly, blinking as bright lights meet his vision. Then there are hands on him, people in white lab coats shining lights into his eyes and feeling his pulse before finally undoing the straps and helping him out, leading him to the chair. The cuffs snap around his arms and the halo comes down, pain spiking for only a minute before the clamps release him.  

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

The soldier's mind quiets. Lukin snaps the red book shut. He looks much older now, face lined and hair thinning but grey eyes still sharp and cold. The room is different, not the same base.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1980. There has been a breakthrough. We have managed to create another vampire in one of the Red Room recruits of the KGB. You are to help train her."_ Lukin nods to the techs.  _"Prep him."_

The cuffs release him and he is dressed in tactical pants, boots, and a shirt, before being led down unfamiliar hallways to what looks like a training room, a small girl of no more than ten with fiery red hair and bright green eyes that watch him warily, something dangerous in her small form.

_"This is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. She is the only successful vampire made from your blood, though we do not know why. You will help train her to use her skills to the best of her ability. Failure will not be tolerated."_ Lukin nods before beginning to walk from the room.  _"I will leave you alone. When I return, I expect her to demonstrate her improved sparring. Begin."_

The door slams behind him. The soldier and the girl eye each other from across the room, neither one wanting to make the first move. Finally the girl speaks.

_"You are the Winter Soldier?"_

_"Yes."_

_"I have heard about you. They say if we are bad you will come for us."_ Her eyes are still narrowed, body language purposefully casual but coiled like a spring.

He blinks, unsure how to respond.  _"You are a vampire."_

_"Yes. They made me from you."_ She cocks her head.  _"Are you my father, then?"_

_"I don't know."_

She studies him.  _"Everything is strange. I am always hungry. The instructors hit me for biting them."_

_"You must learn to push it down,"_ the soldier says.  _"You can control it. It is just hunger."_

Natalia nods.  _"I do not feel it for you. You smell...different."_

He notices that she smells different to him as well, something about her giving him the feeling of a blind spot, as if he can't quite sense her. The smell of her blood is not appetizing but rather like the smell of his own, something he is well acquainted with.  She feels colder, like a patch of ice in his sensory field, heart fluttering in her chest and giving away her nerves but body still.

_"We are the same,"_ he finally says.  _"Not human. I will teach you how to use this to your advantage."_

_"Are we going to spar now?"_

_"Yes."_ He draws closer, standing in front of her. He feels the inexplicable urge to crouch down.  _"Do you know how to fight?"_

She tips her chin up.  _"Yes. I am the best in my class."_

_"Show me."_

The strikes out and he blocks it easily. Her expression goes determined and she strikes faster, sloppier, seeming not to know where to aim because of his height. He blocks them easily, Natalia getting frustrated as she spins and kicks his leg, the soldier not even flinching. Her strength and reflexes are enhanced for certain, or she would not be able to fight as well as she does, but she is nothing compared to the soldier. He analyses her fight pattern, mind calculating the optimal strategy.

_"Stop,"_ he finally says. 

Natalia stops, breathing heavily and scowling. 

_"You fight well,"_ the soldier feels the need to add, before continuing.  _"But only against other children. You will never defeat me with strength, even though you are enhanced. You need to use your size to your advantage. You are small and quick, and I am big and slower. There are parts of the human body that do not matter for strength. Let me show you."_

He swipes out gently with his foot and catches her behind the knee, making her stumble.

_"Here. Hit the back of the knee and they go down. Then you can reach their neck."_ He places a hand on her neck.  _"This is vulnerable on anyone. You do not have the strength to choke someone with your hands. Instead, use your legs."_ He lets up.  _"Try it on me, slowly. Kick out my knee."_

Natalia kicks out his knee and he drops to both knees.  _"Okay, now come from behind, wrap your legs around my neck, and use your body weight to pull me down to the floor. Understand?"_

Natalia nods, eyes narrowing. She moves behind him and then there is small footsteps and her legs wrap around his neck, sitting on his shoulders. 

_"Lean to the side,"_ he instructs.  _"Pull me down."_

Natalia leans forwards and to the side over his shoulder, pulling his head down until she lands sideways on the floor and his head hits the floor and he twists his body so he's on his back. He disentangles himself from her and stands up.

_"Good. Sloppy, but good. Again, faster. Focus on flipping me as you pull me to the floor, and then don't release your legs until I tap."_

Natalia nods before springing into action, kicking his knee out and using his shoulder to propel herself onto his back, legs wrapping around his neck and pulling him to the floor, small legs locked tightly around his throat and cutting off air. He taps the floor and she releases him, looking proud.

_"I did it."_

He finds his lips twitching.  _"Yes. But I let you. That is okay. You are learning. Now, there are other places you can hit."_ He gestures to his own body, Natalia's eyes following every movement intently. He points to his stomach.  _"Here. For your height, an elbow or fists. When you get older, a knee."_ He points to his groin.  _"A knee or a kick. Only on men. And the top of the foot, if someone grabs you from behind. Come here."_

Natalia moves forward and he grabs her gently, wrapping an arm around her throat and holding her with her back against him.  _"Now, take your heel and strike down hard on the top of my foot."_ Natalia kicks down hard, slight pain spiking through his foot as he releases her.  _"Good. Now, come at me again and use any combination of things to bring me down."_

Natalia's eyes flicker over him before her stance firms and she takes a breath, the soldier waiting for her to make the first move. Then she darts forward, aiming a punch at his stomach. He blocks it easily but she uses the moment to hook a leg around the back of his knee and pull, making him stumble. Then she immediately knees him in the groin with the other leg, grabbing the back of his neck when he doubles over slightly to humor her and flipping herself up, wrapping her legs around his neck as the soldier lets himself be pulled to the floor. Her legs lock around his neck tightly and he could break them but he doesn't, instead tapping the floor. She lets go, both of them getting to their feet and Natalia breathing heavily, the soldier not even breaking a sweat.

_"Good,"_ he says, feeling a small surge of pride.  _"Now, concentrate more on the legs. You are small. You can slide under my defenses and kick my legs out at the ankles, and you can use my own body against me."_ He pats his legs, then his shoulders.  _"Use these as steps. If you cannot get me to come down, you come up, and find a way to get your legs around my throat. Start with my legs. Drop to the ground and use your hands to push your legs our and kick out mine. Try it."_

Natalia seems to digest this information and then drops, spinning on one hand as her legs connect with his ankles, sweeping them out from under him. He lets himself fall to the ground heavily to humor her before getting up.

_"Good. Now, try using me as a ladder. Thighs, shoulders. Use whatever to get yourself above me."_

Natasha eyes him, and the soldier can see her mapping out a strategy. She backs up and then gets a running start, enhanced speed and strength allowing her to quickly jump off his thighs and grip his shoulders, swinging around him and wrapping her legs around his throat before falling sideways and bringing him down with her, legs tightly locked. He taps and she releases him, looking pleased. He stands up, nodding.

_"Good. Very good."_

The door opens and Lukin reappears, following by five others. They cluster to the side of the room, eyes drawing to the soldier with interest.

_"This is him?"_ one woman asks.

Lukin nods.  _"Yes. Let us have a demonstration of his abilities."_

Two of the people step forward, their gaits and physical fitness indicating strong fighting ability to the soldier. Lukin nods to him.

_"Spar. Nonlethal."_

The men approach him warily, sizing him up. The soldier stands still, waiting for them to make the first move as his enhanced senses catalogue everything about them and file it away, mind calculating strategy. Finally one strikes out and the soldier blocks it, sending him to the ground with a punch from the metal arm and turning in time to kick out and sweep the other off his feet, having sensed him behind his back. There's a moment of silence as the agents struggle to their feet, looking stunned. 

_"Enough,"_ the woman who spoke before barks out.  _"Very impressive, soldier."_

_"He is the best in the world,"_ Lukin replies.  _"He will make your child soldier even better."_

_"Then let us see if she has made progress."_

_"Indeed."_ Lukin addresses the soldier and Natalia.  _"Spar."_

The soldier turns to Natalia.  _"As before. Any combination."_

Natalia nods, taking a breath before sliding swiftly into motion, feinting a strike and ducking under the soldier's arm to kick at his knee. He stumbles but doesn't fall, not wanting to go easy on her and to make her show off all her skills to the watching people. She grabs his metal arm, unafraid, and uses it to lift herself up and push off with her feet on his thigh, swinging around him and wrapping her legs around his neck, throwing her weight downward as she brings them crashing to the floor, the soldier waiting a moment before tapping out. They get to their feet gracefully, standing at attention.

The woman smiles, strange in her hard face.  _"Very good. I expect great things from you, Ms. Romanova. Great things indeed."_

 


	11. Chapter 11

Lukin leaves the next day.

_"I am retiring,"_ he tells the soldier.  _"You will be left in the hands of the Red Room until someone else makes a bid for you. It has been a pleasure, soldier."_

The soldier does not feel anything when he leaves. The Red Room gives him great freedom, the soldier given a comfortable cell and some authority over the trainings he teaches. The days fall into a routine. The soldier is awakened in his cell, showered and dressed, and then lead to the training room where he meets Natalia. The instructors leave them alone, not seeming to care what happens in the room as long as Natalia continues to improve. He teaches her how to fight and how to use her enhanced senses to her advantage, sensing people out of her line of vision, listening for subtle weaknesses and fear, analyzing how people move to predict their fight patterns, and every way he's learned to use his inhuman capabilities to fight. She's determined and ferocious, red hair whipping around her face and small form moving so quickly she nearly blurs, faster than any human could move. The fear of him he'd sensed at the beginning fades, Natalia becoming comfortable with him and sparking something warm and protective in his chest. In the afternoon he trains with senior members of the Red Room, not having to hold back as much and even slightly challenged when he faces more than one. Any time not spent training others is devoted to enhancing his own skillset, the Red Room instructors teaching him the latest technology and weaponry and how to work covertly, as a spy rather than a soldier. Once a week they feed the soldier through an IV and then wipe and reboot him, the recent memories all staying because they are training but the small echoes and flashes in his head dying away again. He does not resist.

_"Why don't you have a name?"_ Natalia asks one day, as they are stretching before training.

The soldier blinks. _"I...don't. I am not human."_

Natalia wrinkles her nose. _"I am not human, but I have a name."_

The soldier does not know how to answer this. _"It is different. I am....a machine. I was created by Russia."_

Natalia reaches out and touches the metal arm with childlike curiosity, unafraid. _"Is that why you have a metal arm?"_

He doesn't know. _"Yes."_

She touches his cheek, running her hand over the stubble. _"But this is real. You are not a machine."_

He swallows, removing her hand.  _"No. I am a vampire. But I am still created by Russia. I am still programmed."_

_"You need a name,"_ Natalia asserts.  _"I cannot just call you 'soldier.'"_

_"I am the soldier."_

Natasha studies him.  _"Yasha. You look like a Yasha."_

_"I don't have a name."_

_"I am giving you one."_

He inhales slightly, a sharp pang going through him.  _"Okay. But do not let the others hear, or we will both be corrected. It must be our secret."_

Natalia nods solemnly.  _"I won't tell."_

_"Good."_ He draws a breath, extending a hand to help her up.  _"Come. Today we focus on kicks."_

***

Natalia doesn't duck fast enough and his metal fist smashes into her cheekbone, sending her flying to crumple on the ground. The soldier feels horror rise up and runs over to her limp form, kneeling down and turning her over with gentle hands to inspect her cheek as she sits up. She blinks, raising a hand to her already bruising cheekbone as her chin wobbles slightly. He can see her try to push it down, to be stoic, but she is only a child and a tear spills out of her eye, breaths hitching.

_"I'm sorry,"_ the soldier says.  _"I did not mean to hurt you."_

She nods, still trying to stifle her sobs.  _"It is only pain."_

The soldier feels something almost like anger swell.  _"No. You are hurt."_ He touches a tentative hand to her face, inspecting the bruising. Cracked cheekbone, most likely. She will need to feed to heal. He runs a comforting hand over her shoulder, and suddenly she is launching forward to wrap her arms around him, chin digging into his shoulder. He freezes before instinct takes over and he hugs her back, rubbing circles into her back in a way that seems familiar. 

_"I'm sorry,"_ he repeats. 

She hugs him tighter, small and fragile against his large form, and something warm blossoms in his chest.  _Protect,_ it says.  _Protect._

***

_"Good,"_ he says, lips twitching and side still smarting.  _"Very good."_

Natalia looks pleased.  _"Yesterday I won my fight. I broke Katya's arm."_

_"You are learning fast, little spider."_

Natalia wrinkles her nose.  _"Little spider?"_

_"You are small and fast, and you trick your opponents,"_  the soldier says. _"And you bite,"_ he adds.  _"You drink blood."_

Natalia giggles before composing herself.  _"I will be the best spider."_

_"I am certain of it. Now, again."_

***

_"I am a ballerina,"_ Natalia says, floating into a pirouette.  _"I am the best in my class."_

_"I am sure, little spider,"_ the soldier replies.

_"Do you know how to dance?"_

Something tugs on the edge of his memory, laughter and music and twirling. _"No."_

_"Can I show you what I have learned?"_

_"Yes."_

***

_"What do they do to you when they take you away every week?"_ Natalia asks.  _"The other girls say they hear screaming, but they like to make up stories."_

_"They...fix me,"_ the soldier replies.  _"There is a flaw in my programming."_

_"Is that why you come back different? You always talk less, and you are not as nice. You don't give me hugs or tell me things. I like you at the end of the week better."_

The soldier does not know how to respond.  _"They fix me,"_ he repeats, but he sounds unsure even to himself. It is the end of the week. It is time for another wipe.

***

_"Why do you have scars here?"_ Natalia asks, small fingers tracing the jagged tissue that wraps around his right wrist.

_"Corrections,"_ the soldier replies.  _"The silver cuffs burn. You must stay away from silver."_

Natalia frowns.  _"They used to handcuff us to our beds every night, but they were not silver."_

Sudden anger flares within the soldier.  _"They hurt you?"_

Natalia shakes her head.  _"The cuffs did not hurt. And it is only pain."_

The soldier knows this, but it sounds wrong coming from the small girl.  _"No,"_ he says with conviction.  _"They should not hurt you."_

_"It is the only way to learn. Come, Yasha, teach me that move again."_

He hesitates and finally acquiesces, head pounding. It is time for a wipe.

***

Natalia reaches out to touch his hair, the soldier staying still on the ground beside her, both of them stretching.  _"Why is your hair so long?"_ Natalia questions.

The soldier blinks. He has never thought about it. No one has ever touched his hair.  _"I don't know."_

_"I like it."_

He reaches out a hand and ruffles her hair on long-buried instinct, lips twitching when she pulls away, eyes glinting with humor to counter her scowl.  _"And your hair is distinctive, little spider. I would recognize it anywhere."_

Natalia bites her lip, sobering.  _"You won't forget me, will you? Sometimes you forget things, or go away in your head. I don't like it when that happens."_

The soldier shakes his head.  _"No. I will not forget you, little spider."_

***

It has been months since he first arrived at the Red Room. Natalia is becoming a formidable fighter, and their relationship continues to blossom under the noses of Madame B. and the rest of the instructors. When they spar for an audience they are cool and detached, only acknowledging each other to fight, but when they are alone they talk freely, the soldier soft and gentle with Natalia and Natalia blossoming under the attention. He brushes away her tears when she is hurt or frustrated and she hugs him and holds his metal hand without fear, asking questions the instructors will never let her ask as the soldier answers as best he can. 

_"I love you, Yasha,"_ Natalia murmurs against his shoulder, small arms wrapped around his neck.

The soldier does not know how to respond. He does not know what love is, beyond a concept. Love is weakness. Love is what allows you to manipulate people. But Natalia's heartbeat flutters in his ears and she is small and fragile against him, and there is something warm and protective in his chest, and he thinks that that is wrong. He thinks that this is love. He thinks he loves Natalia, too, a paternal sort of love that screams _protect_. But he does not respond, only rubs circles into her back as his mind whirls. It is time for a wipe.

***

_"I have a mission for you,"_ Madame B. says, addressing the soldier and Natalia.  _"You have both shown remarkable progress. This will be a test."_

They are dressed in civilian clothes, the soldier's metal arm concealed by a jacket and gloves and a hat on his head to help conceal his face. They are to pose as father and daughter, using this to infiltrate a hospital and assassinate a doctor. Natalia clings to him, face buried in his shoulder as if ill as he steps through the door and walks up to the desk.

_"Hello, how may I help you?"_ the receptionist asks.

_"It is my daughter. She is sick,"_ the soldier replies.  _"I do not know what is wrong."_

_"Name?"_

_"Tatiana Sokolova."_

_"And yours?"_

_"Alexei."_

_"ID, please."_

He passes over the forged identity, rubbing Natalia's back as he waits. Finally the woman passes it back, nodding.

_"You will be called when the doctor is ready."_

_"Thank you."_ He goes over to the bank of chairs to wait, settling Natalia more comfortably against him. She is a good actress, body limp and face distressed as if truly ill, her natural pallor helping to add to the illusion. They wait for several minutes before the target, the doctor steps through a door.

_"Tatiana Sokolova?"_

The soldier gets up, moving over to him. The doctor nods, glancing at Natalia.

_"Follow me."_

He leads them to an exam room, closing the door behind him as the soldier sets Natalia down and her facade disappears. The doctor's back is turned to them as he searches for his instruments.

_"Okay, what seems to be the problem?"_

The soldier steps up behind him and slides the needle into his neck, hand over his mouth as the doctor falls limply against him. The substance will mimic a heart attack, and no one should believe any foul play. The soldier removes the needle and lowers the doctor to the floor quietly, stuffing the needle in his pocket and stepping over the body as he extends a hand to Natalia. Natalia stares at the body with calm curiosity, unbothered. The soldier lifts her back onto his hip and opens the door, raising his voice.

_"Help! Something is wrong with the doctor!"_

People come running.

_"What is it?"_

The soldier points to the room.  _"He just collapsed. Please, help him."_

Nurses brush past him and in the chaos the soldier slips away, tossing his hat to change his appearance slightly and making his way out of the hospital, Natalia still clinging to him. When they get out he lets her down and she grips his metal hand as they walk unhurriedly down the street to their extraction point, blending into the crowd. They're driven back to the facility and Madame B. greets them, looking expectant.

_"Mission report."_

_"Target eliminated,"_ the soldier replies. 

Madame B. gives them a smile.  _"Good. You have done well, soldier. You passed the test. You will be returned to cryostasis until we have further need of you. Natalia, you will continue your training with the others."_

Natalia nods, only the soldier catching the small hint of troubled confusion in her expression. She watches as the soldier is led away, eyes following him until he turns the corner and she disappears, the soldier's chest aching slightly. He's dressed in his cryo suit and put into the chamber, cold creeping up his body until he falls into darkness.

***

Warmth runs through him, the soldier taking a rasping breath as the chamber hisses open. Hands free him and drag him to the chair, his long hair dangling in his face. The metal clamps around his head and he screams, fists clenching until finally it releases him with a jerk. 

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

The soldier breathes and calms, eyes flicking to the source of the voice. An unfamiliar man holds the red book, face stern and posture rigid.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1982. I am Colonel Vasily Karpov. I am a Hydra operative embedded in the Russian Armed Forces, and I am your new handler. You will carry out missions for Hydra as well as continuing to train in the Red Room. Do you understand?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Good. Now, I have a mission for you."_

The target is Roberto Calvi. The soldier finds him at the London airport and captures him, following orders and stringing him up beneath the scaffolding of Blackfriar Bridge on the Thames, five bricks stuffed in his pockets. The soldier is flown back to the Red Room, giving his mission report to Karpov before he is instructed to train with Natalia to keep her skills sharp. He steps into the training room to see her waiting with her back to him, the soldier the only one able to sneak up on her due to the sensory blindspot they both occupy.

_"Little spider,"_ he says softly.

Natalia whirls, eyes going wide.  _"Yasha,"_ she breathes, and then she is running forward to leap into his arms, face buried into his shoulder as he picks her up and hugs her back tightly. She is bigger, two years older than when he had seen her last and filled out slightly, on the cusp of puberty.

_"I missed you,"_ she whispers. 

He finally sets her down, looking her over.  _"You have grown."_

She studies him.  _"And you are the same."_

He nods.  _"Yes. I was asleep. And I must go back to sleep soon."_

Her eyes tighten.  _"How long do we have?"  
_

_"A week. Enough to hone your skills."_

She nods, and he can see her push down the emotion and maintain her facade. She seems colder, more focused, less like the warm, excitable girl he knew.  _"I have improved some since you left, but you are the best teacher. Now that I am older you can teach me more."_

_"Yes. Show me what you have learned."_

Natalia moves into fighting stance, eyes glittering dangerously and a smirk tugging at her mouth.  _"Begin."_

***

They get a week. The soldier is impressed by Natalia's skills, her growth allowing her to do more moves that require strength instead of relying solely on speed and strategic strikes. She now excels at feats of acrobatics, spinning through the air to wrap her legs around his neck and flip him to the ground. He finds he has to hold back less, even caught off guard a few times and almost brought down for real. At the end of the week she hugs him tightly, struggling to maintain her impassive expression.

_"See you soon, Yasha,"_ she says. 

The soldier nods.  _"Good luck, little spider."_

He is led into cryo, and the world swirls away.

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

The soldier breathes and calms, eyes flicking to Karpov.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1983. I have a mission for you."_

The target is Benigno Aquino, Jr. The soldier walks across the Manila International airport tarmac behind the target, disguised as one of the officers escorting him. The target steps down from the plane and the soldier fires in one swift motion, hitting him in the back of the neck. Then he turns his gun on Galman, firing and taking him down as well, ensuring he will be blamed for the murder. He turns to the other officers, who freeze.

"You saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing,"the soldier says as ordered. "Hydra is everywhere."

The men nod feverishly, hands raised. The soldier slips away, returning to the extraction point and enduring the long journey back to the Red Room, waiting impatiently before he is told to see Natalia. She's waiting for him, and he folds her in a hug as she exhales into his neck.

_"Yasha."_

_"Natalia."_ He sets her down.  _"How are you faring, little spider?"_

She tilts her head up.  _"I am still the best in my class. I never fail."_

_"Show me."_

She smiles, moving into position.

They only get a day and then he is led back to cryo, slipping into darkness.

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

The soldier breathes and calms, eyes flicking to Karpov.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1985. I have a mission for you."_

He walks across the runway Gander, Newfoundland airport, disguised as a worker. He slips inside the Arrow Air Flight 1285 and plants a small explosive before disappearing again, finding a spot to watch. When the flight is in the air he detonates the small explosive, watching as the plane dips and then crashes, breaking up and hitting a building before exploding. He slips away and returns to the extraction point, flying back to the Red Room. His heart beats faster as he makes his way to the training room, anticipation building at seeing Natalia. She's waiting for him, expression brightening when she sees him, and she launches herself into his arms without hesitation.

_"Hello, little spider,"_ he says.

_"Hello, Yasha."_

He puts her down and studies her. She has grown even more, 15 now, head coming up to his chin and body filled out, something more settled and calculated in her movements and a certain coldness in her eyes.

_"You have grown,"_ he says.

She smiles.  _"And you are the same."_

_"Show me what you have learned."_

Her smile turns deadly, sharp and edged.  _"Begin."_

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

The soldier breathes and calms, eyes flicking to Karpov.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1986. I have a mission for you."_

The target is Olof Palme, Swedish Prime Minister. He is often without a bodyguard, and it is easy for the soldier to creep up in the dark Stockholm street behind Palme and his wife, shooting him in the back and grazing the wife. He slips away into the darkness and returns to his extraction point, the journey back to Russia seeming long even with the soldier's patience.

_"Hello, little spider."_

_"Yasha."_

He hugs her tightly and sets her down, eyes flitting over her. It has only been a year, and she appears healthy and safe. He feels relief wash over him.

_"How are your studies, little spider?"_

_"Madame B. says I am the best she has ever seen. It will not be long now until graduation."_

_"You have done well. Show me what you have learned."_

She smiles.  _"Begin."_

They get a week.

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

The soldier breathes and calms, eyes flicking to Karpov.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"It is 1988. I have a mission for you."_

He plants the bomb in the Samsonite harshell suitcase with an electronic timer, concealed in a radio-cassette player. It will implicate Libya, and Hydra members all over will ensure mass confusion and speculation runs rampant. He breaks into the Pan Am baggage area of Heathrow Airport 17 hours before the plane is due to take off, planting the suitcase before slipping away, unnoticed. Police will lose the report. He's transported back to the Red Room, where Natalia is waiting. She is 18 now, and it is time for graduation.

He is in the main training room, where a line of girls are all waiting to be evaluated. They must fight him and pass a series of physical and mental tasks before they can graduate. He takes down each girl, leaving them frustrated and bruised, Madame B. watching with sharp eyes as she decides who will go on. Finally it is Natalia's turn. She pretends to fail, leaving the soldier confused as he puts her in a chokehold and she taps out, not even trying. She doesn't want to graduate, he realizes. He doesn't know why, but it is enough to spark protectiveness in his chest.

_"Sloppy,"_ Madame B. says.  _"Pretending to fail. Graduation is necessary for you to take your place in the world."_

Natalia's expression tightens. Madame B. turns to the guards.  _"Take her."_

They stride towards Natalia but the soldier moves in front of her, blocking them. He will not let them take her. He will not let them hurt her. She doesn't want to graduate, and he doesn't need to know why to trust her decision.

_"Stand down, soldier,"_ Madame B. orders.

The soldier narrows his eyes at the guards, unmoving.

_"I said stand down, soldier."_

The guards move to take Natalia and the soldier lashes out, taking them down swiftly and moving to stand in front of Natalia again, her hand coming to rest on his metal arm as she peers around him.

Madame B's expression pinches.

_"You seem to have become attached, soldier. That is not acceptable. And you-"_ she turns her gaze to Natalia-" _you should know better."_ She waves a hand.  _"Take her. Wipe him."_

The agents surround them, the soldier pressing back and shielding Natalia as he snarls.

_"I won't let you take her."_

Madame B's face is impassive.  _"You will not have a choice. I have long suspected that there was something going on, a connection between you, and I did not do anything because it did not affect Natalia's training. But this cannot continue."_ Her gaze is unwavering as she stares at Natalia.  _"Let this be a lesson."_ She turns away, the door closing behind her.

The agents attack and the soldier counters but there are too many and they are prepared. A silver bullet embeds in his calf, silver cuffs snapping around his wrist as they begin to drag him from the room, more subduing a struggling Natalia.

_"Yasha!"_ she screams.  _"No! Let me go! Yasha!"_ She is no longer a child, but there is childlike grief and despair in her eyes as they find the soldier's, time slowing for a moment as their eyes lock in mutual understanding and sorrow and then Natalia's face disappears as he is dragged from the room, something breaking inside him. They drag him down the hallway and to the room with the chair, the cuffs snapping around his arms as someone digs the bullet out of his leg. Madame B is there along with Karpov, faces grim.

_"Wipe it all,"_ Karpov says to the technicians.  _"Calibrate it to erase everything from the Red Room."_

_"But he may lose some of the training, and the missions...he will only retain muscle memory-"_

_"I don't care. Wipe it all."_

The soldier's breaths heave as the halo comes down, panic thrumming through him. No. No, please, not Natalia. They can't take Natalia from him. The metal clamps around his head and the world whites out in pain, the thoughts fading into nothingness.

***

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

The soldier breathes. He is....he cannot remember. He remembers disobeying orders, then correction, then cryo. After...he feels there is something after, but he does not know. His mental catalogue tells him he has more skills and knowledge, but he doesn't remember learning them. His eyes wander and find the source of the voice, a man who is unfamiliar but at the same time familiar. The man snaps the red book shut. 

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"Do you know who I am?"_

_"No."_

_"I am Colonel Vasily Karpov. I am your handler. I work for Hydra. It is 1988."_

The soldier is prepped and lead to the cryo chamber, still mildly confused but compliant, remembering the last correction. As the ice creeps up his body the last feeling he has is a strange grief.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These missions (except the doctor) are actually historically accurate and some of the ones that have the most conspiracy theories around them or have never been solved. If anyone is wondering why Natasha was born in 1970 but still looks 30 in 2014 I'm saying that once she reaches maturity she ages slower because she is a vampire. Why she's called the Black Widow is because she often seduces her victims and then bites and kills them. My headcanon is that the reason she says "love is for children" in the Avengers is that she loved the Winter Soldier as a child but they took him away and so she learned her lesson and closed herself off. And when she tells Steve that he'll never find him and that she's tried, it wasn't after Odessa but in fact after she left the Red Room. She searched for him for years but never found him, and then he shot her in Odessa and disappeared again until the whole catws deal, not remembering her.


	12. Chapter 12

Warmth flows through him and there is hissing as the cryo chamber lifts open, the soldier's limbs burning and tingling as he draws a breath. Hands take off the respirator and undo the straps and electrodes and pull him down, slinging his arms around shoulders and dragging him across the room to the chair, cuffs snapping over his arms and IV inserted as the halo whirs above him. It locks around his face and he screams as pain lances through his head, arms straining in the cuffs. It lasts a minute and then releases him with a jerk as Karpov begins to speak, walking around the chair.

_"Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car."_

The soldier jerks and breathes as his mind quiets, knowledge slotting into place. He is in the base in Siberia, guards ringing the circular depression in the floor where the chair sits. His eyes flick to Karpov and Karpov closes the red book, setting it on the table.

_"Good morning, soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"I have a mission for you. Sanction and extract. No witnesses."_

It is December 16, 1991. The targets are Howard and Maria Stark. The soldier is prepped but not given a mask. He does not question this. The soldier waits above the empty road in the darkness until the car passes, turning on the motorcycle and coming up behind the car. He draws alongside it and lashes out with the metal fist, sending the car careening into a tree as he turns the motorcycle around, stopping. He opens the trunk, finding the briefcase and checking that the pouches are in there. The target struggles out of the car, crawling along the ground towards the soldier.

"Please. Help. Help my wife."

The soldier grabs him by the hair and yanks his head up, the target suddenly gazing at the soldier in wonder and disbelief and  _recognition_ and the soldier hesitates, arm lowering as something tugs at him.

"Sergeant Barnes?"

Something in him snaps and the metal fist strikes the target's face once, twice, letting him crumple to the ground as he hears his heartbeat stop. The soldier drags him over to the car, setting him in the seat with face against the steering wheel, the injuries appearing as if from the crash. 

"Howard!"

The soldier rounds the car, wrapping his flesh hand around the woman's throat until he feels her pulse stop under his hand. Then he rounds the car again and finds the security camera, shooting it out. He gathers the pouches and drives to the extraction point, something still tugging at him; a sense of unsettling wrongness that won't leave him alone. 

Karpov stares down at the pouches, the soldier standing beside him quietly.

"Well done, soldier."

***

The soldier sits in his cell, the groaning of the Hydra agents echoing faintly down the hall. They'd started out in the medical suite, the serum injected, but been moved to the cells when they started thrashing. The soldier stares at the wall and waits, still in his tac gear.

Finally the groans stop and there is the sound of a cell opening. More cells open and footsteps sound, the agents moving out of their cells and heading towards the shower. After a while Karpov's footsteps sound and the soldier's cell opens, his eyes flicking to Karpov.

_"Come. They will test their skills against you."_

The soldier follows Karpov to the training room, where the agents are lined up. 

_"Spar,"_ Karpov instructs.  _"Defeat the soldier."_ He nods at the first agent, a tall man with brown hair who has an angry glint in his eyes. He moves forward and faces off against the soldier, something about him smelling strange and off to the soldier's nose. He strikes out and the soldier glides into motion, assured in his ability to defeat anyone, but the agent blocks his strikes and grabs his metal arm, wrenching the soldier down and making his shoulder throb in protest as he grunts and looks up at the agent in disbelief. The agent winds up and strikes right on the seam of the metal arm, drawing a cry of pain from the soldier before the agent pulls him up again and lands a kick to his torso, sending him flying across the room to hit the wall and fall to the floor limply.

_"Good work,"_ Karpov says. The soldier struggles to his feet, pain pulsing through his body and frustration building. Failure is unacceptable. 

A doctor takes the agent's wrist, feeling his pulse. Suddenly the agent snaps, grabbing the doctor and slamming him to the ground. Guards surround him and one lands a hit to his back but the agent doesn't even flinch, turning to the guard with murderous eyes as the rest of the agents stand up, tension building in the room. The soldier steps in front of Karpov, the imperative to protect kicking in. Karpov withdraws a gun, grabbing the soldier and pointing it over his shoulder.

_"Get me out of here."_

The soldier moves forward as chaos erupts, the agents attacking the guards, knocking aside agents with the metal arm as he heads for the barred cells that line the training room, closing the door behind him.

It takes hours to finally subdue the agents, drugging them and then dragging them into cryo chambers. Karpov nods at the soldier, looking troubled.

_"You did well, soldier. The others are too unstable to use. It seems we are left with you. But the Soviet Union is falling. You shall be put in stasis until it is decided where to place you."_

The soldier is prepped for cryo and lead past the other chambers to his own, the glass coming down around him as cold washes over him and he sinks into darkness.

***

Warmth runs through him and he takes a rasping breath through the respirator as the cryo chamber hisses open. Voices swirl around him and hands remove the respirator, the soldier sucking in lungfuls of air. The straps and electrodes are removed and he is pulled out, arms slung around shoulders as he is dragged and put in the chair, cuffs snapping around his arms and someone inserting an IV. He waits but there is no telltale whirring of the halo and he blinks back to awareness slowly, his surroundings resolving in his vision. He's not in the base but rather in what looks like a bank vault, a barred door slightly to his left and guards surrounding him with hands tightly clenched on their guns as men in white coats read the screens next to the chair. A younger man in a suit steps up, with sandy blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that study the soldier curiously, a handsome face that's somehow familiar and a certain swagger to his steps that speaks of arrogant confidence.

"Hello. It's an honor to finally meet you."

The soldier does not know how to respond, confused. There is no chair and no words, and sometimes they do this because it has not been long but his surroundings are unfamiliar and the faces are unfamiliar and he's not sure where or when he is or who he is supposed to obey without the words.

"My name is Alexander Pierce," the man says. "I work for Hydra. I'm your new handler. Though I must say, the Russians were not happy about giving you up, and I can see why. Your work is unparalleled."

The soldier stays silent, waiting. Pierce studies him for a moment before continuing.

"I have a mission for you. One target, a high-level Shield agent. She's been poking into the Starks' deaths." He holds up a photograph, a woman with silver-streaked hair who looks to be in her seventies, face still beautiful and eyes sharp in a way that makes the soldier twitch slightly. "Make it look accidental. Heart attack. Understood?"

"Yes." The English is rusty on his tongue.

Pierce looks relieved. "Thank god. I was wondering if you would ever even blink." He turns to the techs. "Prep him."

The cuffs release his arms and two young techs approach cautiously, the rapid heartbeats fluttering in their chests and slight perspiration evidence of their nervousness. One slides the IV out of his arm while the other undoes his cryo vest, the soldier staying limp and compliant as they work it off his arms.

"Holy shit," one breathes, staring at his chest, eyes tracing the scars. The soldier is not sure why they are shocked but is used to people talking around him and ignores it as the techs poke and prod at him, marveling under their breaths. Light is shined in his eyes and they take his pulse, running hands over the metal arm.

"Incredible," one murmurs. "Just incredible. The technology, and the integration..."

"We'll study it later," the other scolds slightly. "We have to get him prepped for the mission."

"Right, right. Sorry. Alright, uh, soldier-" the tech turns to him "-can you get up?"

The soldier feels something like scorn rise. Can he get up? Of course he can get up. He stands, the techs unconsciously stepping back with a jolt of fear. The soldier waits for further instructions, irritated. Usually the techs are sharp and professional, and give him clear instructions. Everything about this is wrong, from the absence of the words to the new handler to the unknown location and lack of information given. He doesn't even know the date, or if he's in Russia, though based on the English and the accents he thinks he may be in America.

"Right," the tech seems to snap out of his daze. "Okay. Gear. Soldier, follow me."

Finally. The soldier follows the techs as they move out of the room through the barred gates and down a hallway, stepping into a room that appears to be an armory. Guards trail after them, guns still in hand. The techs grab a set of tac gear and set it on a small bench, stepping back.

"Okay, get dressed."

The soldier complies, quickly stripping and pulling on the pants and shirt, slipping into the jacket that covers both arms and waiting for the techs to do it up as he can't reach. They do, after a moment's hesitation, hands fumbling at the zippers and shaking slightly. The soldier pulls on his boots and does them up, pulling on a glove over his metal hand as the techs secure the mask over his face and hold out a tin of black paint, the soldier sighing internally before dipping his finger in and doing it himself without a mirror, slightly aggravated. He stands, waiting, as the techs look him over.

"Good, yeah. That, uh-" the tech swallows, the soldier sensing his fear. "It looks good. Mission ready."

An agent steps forward, holding out a syringe to the soldier. "Potassium chloride. To mimic a heart attack."

_I know,_ the soldier thinks. He thinks he's used this before, though he doesn't remember. He takes the syringe, putting it into a pouch on his belt. The agent nods. "Alright, follow us." The soldier follows them through the hallway and to an elevator, the car silent and tense as they ride up. Then they're walking through the main floor of a bank and out a side door into a van, agents piling in after the soldier in the back and sliding the door closed as it starts with a rumble. They drive for a while and then finally stop, the soldier waiting for instructions.

"Okay, the target is in the white house at the end of the street, number 4. No witnesses, and the death must look accidental. Extraction point is here. Understood?"

"Yes." His voice is slightly muffled through the mask.

"Alright." The agent slides open the door, the soldier climbing out into the darkness and slipping into the shadows, making his way down the quiet street. He reaches the end of the street, the white house edged with gardens around front and a picket fence that the soldier vaults over, creeping around the back of the house. He finds a window and breaks the latch quietly with his metal hand, slipping inside and landing on silent feet. He moves through the house, senses trained on the two hearts beating steadily upstairs. The stairs creak as he climbs and he adjusts his weight so they fall silent again, stepping onto the landing and moving towards the closed bedroom door. He turns the knob slowly and enters, fishing the syringe out of his belt and holding it in his flesh hand as he approaches the bed. There are two figures lying in it, a man and a woman, the woman's silver-streaked hair spread out on the pillow and breathing deep and even. It will be tricky to inject the woman without waking the man, as their simultaneous deaths would raise suspicion, but the soldier is not the best for nothing. He crouches down by the bed and hovers his metal hand over the target's mouth as he positions the needle by her neck, ready to clamp down as soon as he injects it. The woman looks peaceful in sleep, lips slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering against her lined skin, something familiar in the shape of her face, the curve of her lips.

The soldier blinks, hesitating as something pushes at his mind, and in his distraction misses the slight shift in breathing, no warning before the woman moves quickly, withdrawing a knife from under the pillow and aiming straight for the soldier's throat. It's only his superhuman reflexes that save him from a quick death, the knife slashing across his throat deeply but just missing the artery and the syringe falling from his hand. He grabs the woman's hand with his metal one, wrenching the knife away as she springs out of bed, struggling against his hold and kneeing him in the stomach, slower with age but still obviously highly skilled. The husband wakes up, eyes going wide with terror as he rolls out of bed on the other side, beginning to limp across the room towards the phone, favoring his right leg. 

_No witnesses,_ the soldier thinks. That's not happening now. This mission is a-is a  _goddamn shitshow._ There's no way he's getting out of here with the target's death looking accidental. He shoves the target to the floor and strides over to the husband, wrenching the phone plug out of the wall and withdrawing a knife, knocking aside the man's feeble defenses and wrapping a metal hand around his throat, his own throat still gushing blood and making his knees go weak. He senses the target come up behind him and whirls, matching her blows sloppily as the world begins to blur, familiar coldness creeping up with the blood loss. The woman gets an opening and shoves him back against the wall, gun pressed against his side as she narrows her eyes at him in a way that makes something twinge in his mind.

"Who are you? Who sent you? Does this have something to do with the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark?"

 "Peggy," the husband rasps weakly from across the room. 

She doesn't turn to look at him, keeping the soldier pinned against the wall as he lets himself be kept there to buy time, mind whirling with strategies, but her face creases in concern. "Are you all right, dear?"

"Just a little winded. You?"

"Not dead yet. Alright, let's see who you are." The target- _Peggy, why does he know that name-_ reaches up with her free hand towards the mask, ripping it off just as the soldier panics and shoves her away, stumbling across the room towards the door. There's a click behind him. "Stop or I shoot. I won't miss."

The soldier pauses, swaying with blood loss, mind hazy and jumbled and filled with strange flashes and muted words, head aching. Without the mask scents flood in and the woman's scent is  _familiar,_ he knows this-

"Turn around."

He is tired, so tired and the imperative to follow orders is so deeply ingrained he turns around without thinking, eyes locking onto the woman. She inhales sharply, gun lowering as her eyes widen in disbelief, and he thinks of a quiet road and that same expression on another face- _Sergeant Barnes-_

"James?" she whispers. Her eyes are filled with grief and recognition and the soldier-the soldier  _knows_ that voice, he knows that name and that scent, but why, and how, and his head hurts and the world spins and he takes a step backwards, and then another, the woman standing unmoving with shock, before he turns and flees. He stumbles down the stairs and through the window, hand trying futilely to stop the blood that streams from his throat and leaving bloody handprints on the walls as he goes. He staggers away down the street with the last of his strength, keeping to the shadows until he reaches his extraction point. The van is waiting and the door slides open as he gets close, agents jumping out and their eyes widening as they take him in.

"Holy shit. Shit. The asset is injured. I repeat, the asset is injured. Get him in." They reach him just as he collapses, dragging him into the van and laying him down on the seat as something is pressed over his throat.

"Shit, he's gonna bleed out."

"Doesn't he have super healing or something?"

"Not if he doesn't have blood. Anyone want to volunteer?"

There's a moment of silence.

"Alright, then I'll do it myself. I'm not letting the Asset die on my watch. Pierce will skin me alive." There's the sound of velcro being ripped away and then a wrist hovering over the soldier's mouth, his hunger sharpening into an insistent need. The agent takes a deep breath and then presses his wrist to the soldier's mouth, one hand holding his head steady. "Here. Just don't kill me, please."

The soldier opens his mouth, fangs coming down as he sinks them into the agent's wrist. Relief rushes through him and he only takes enough to know he will survive before withdrawing his fangs, licking over the agent's wrist before relaxing against the seat, eyes slipping closed.

He wakes when they drag him out, the lights of the bank flashing in his vision. He's dumped in the chair, voices swirling around him and a pinch as an IV is inserted into his right hand, his head lolling limply on the headrest as hands begin to strip away his bloody tac gear. Warmth from the IV courses through him, the wound on his neck tingling slightly as it begins to heal and the lingering hunger abating, awareness returning. He blinks open his eyes, finding himself back in the bank vault with the techs hovering around him, his tactical jacket and shirt off and bandages wrapped around his throat, blood smeared all over him and coating his right hand. Footsteps sound and Pierce strides into the room, expression angry.

"So, apparently Peggy Carter just called the authorities about an attempted murder in her home. Both her and her husband are alive and uninjured and meanwhile I've got the Winter Soldier bleeding everywhere." Pierce stops in front of the soldier, meeting his eyes. "What the hell happened?"

The soldier struggles to find the words. "Mission failure. Identity compromised."

Pierce's hand cracks against his cheek, snapping the soldier's head to the side. "I know that," Pierce says harshly. "What I want to know is why. You've never failed a mission before."

"I-" the soldier blinks, confused. "She surprised me. She was skilled. There was a witness. The mission was compromised."

PIerce narrows his eyes. "You don't get surprised."

"I..." He bites his lip, head aching. "I knew her."

Pierce stiffens. "Wait, you said your identity was compromised. Did she get a look at your face?"

"Yes, I-she called me-" the soldier frowns. "She called me James."

"She was mistaken," Pierce says smoothly, but the soldier can tell by his heartbeat and perspiration that he is lying, and something hot burns in his chest. He meets Pierce's eyes, feeling the tension build.

"No. You-you're lying. I knew her. You-this is wrong. You didn't say the words. You aren't my handler. Who are you? Where am I?" 

Pierce swallows, and the soldier can feel his fear. "Stand down, soldier. I am your handler. The Russians did not give us the words because they resent us, but it doesn't matter. You will not question me."

The soldier surges to his feet, guns clicking as the guards in the room train them on him, Pierce taking a step back.

"No," the soldier snarls. His hands clench into fists and his body trembles, head pounding and whirling with fragments and flashes of memory just out of reach, and everything is wrong, this is wrong, he doesn't know where he is or  _when_ it is, where is his handler, where is Karpov, everything is wrong-

"Restrain him," Pierce says. "We need a different strategy. Wipes alone won't work if we don't have the words." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I am not the biggest fan of violence but I don't see another way. Watch the Russian tapes, or come up with something new. I don't care. Just do whatever you need to until he breaks, until he learns his lesson, and then call me. I'm going to try and fix this mess." With that he turns and exits the room, more agents pouring in and surrounding the soldier as his breaths kick up.

He knows how this ends, but the small flame the Russians had never managed to douse burns inside him and he springs into action, taking down as many as he can before the silver pierces his body and he crashes to the floor, hands holding him down and locking silver cuffs around his wrists and ankles as he struggles and screams. They drag him into another room to a table and cuff and strap him down, digging out the bullets. The head agent steps up as they all seem to mill around, unsure.

"Are we really going to torture him?" one young agent questions hesitantly. "Isn't that...illegal?"

There's a snort from the head agent. "Kid, you think anything we're doing here is legal? And hell, waterboarding is legal. The CIA does it all the time."

He presses a button on the table and it tilts backwards, the soldier's head below his feet slightly as the agent puts a cloth over his face, everything going dark as the soldier breathes shallowly. There's scraping and the squeak of something being turned, the slap of a hose on the floor before the cloth is pulled tight over his face and water splashes over it, running in the soldier's mouth and nose and cutting off air. He is drowning on dry land, and after a moment he starts to jerk as the suffocation becomes unbearable, panic spiking even though he knows they won't let him die. The water stops and he coughs and sputters for a moment before it resumes, the soldier choking as his eyes stream and his wrists pull at the cuffs, the silver burning into them. The water stops enough for him to suck in a breath before starting again, then stopping, then starting, over and over again until it becomes unbearable, every cell screaming for it to end.

"Have you learned your lesson?" the agent asks, pausing, water trickling to the floor next to the soldier's head.

The soldier draws in a ragged breath, lungs starved for oxygen. "No," he rasps.

The water spills over his face again.

***

The agent sighs and there's a squeak as the hose shuts off, the soldier drawing ragged breaths through the damp cloth. "Okay, this isn't working. You can see the scars on his body. He's used to torture. He's not going to break so easily."

"I don't-I don't know if I can do this," the young agent says, voice tremulous. 

"Toughen up, kid. This, right here? This isn't a person. He's a vampire, a fucking  _thing_  Hydra created back in the forties. He would snap you like a twig without blinking given the chance. I think he's more trouble than he's worth but hey, Pierce thinks he's useful, so I'm gonna do my fucking job and fix this mess. You should too if you know what's good for you, or you might find yourself the soldier's next mission."

There's an audible swallow. 

"Good. Now, anyone got any bright ideas as to how to go about this?"

"Sensory deprivation? Stress positions? The CIA uses them so it's still legal. And he doesn't need food or water or anything so you can leave him there a long time."

"You guys and your legalities. But we can try it. Come on, soldier. Time for the big leagues."

The cloth is taken from his face and he squints against the light, sucking in rasping breaths. The agent removes the straps and cuffs, more dragging him off the table and lifting his arms over his head to re-attach them to silver cuffs dangling from the ceiling, the metal shoulder aching with the strain. His feet rest on the floor and someone takes off his boots, leaving them bare. He knows this, remembers the last correction, and for a moment he wonders why he's resisting. He can't articulate why, but something tells him this is wrong and that the target, the woman- _Peggy-_ had known him and he had known her and this is  _wrong,_ they haven't given him the words and Karpov isn't here and he doesn't know-he doesn't know what he's supposed to do or who to report to but everything is wrong and he stubbornly clings to that last spark of defiance in his chest. This is  _wrong._

Black fabric is wound around his eyes, blocking his vision.

"What about smell? He's a vampire, I'm sure he can smell us," someone says. "It's why he has the mask."

"Oh yeah, true. The hunger should be torture in of itself after awhile. Lost the other one; put the spare mask on to cut off scent."

There's footsteps and a minute later the mask is pressed over his face and secured, only his hearing left. 

"Okay, so we just...leave him here?"

"That'll take a while. Let's speed it up." There's a small clang and a whoosh and suddenly something impacts his shin, a crack echoing through the room as his tibia snaps and he screams through the mask. Another whoosh and the other leg cracks under the force of the hammer, the soldier putting all his weight on his arms to relieve the pain that radiates through his legs. The hammer clinks back onto the table. Hands find his shins and wrap around them, making sure the bone is set as the soldier grits his teeth. Then silver cuffs are locked around his ankles with a bar in between, forcing them outwards to shoulder width and making him sway off-balance, hanging by his wrists with feet brushing the floor.

"Okay, that should speed things up. We'll check on him in, like, a day. Come on."

The footsteps trail out and the door slams, leaving the soldier alone. He breathes harshly through the mask, body pulsing with pain. The knife wound on his neck hasn't healed yet, blood soaking through the bandage, and the bullet wounds in his side throb in time to his broken legs, left shoulder aching with strain from the position and having to lift himself up slightly to keep the weight off his injured legs, unable to move them with the bar. He grits his teeth against the pain and the noise in his head, agony pulsing behind his eyes and sparking through his brain as flashes of images and distorted sounds torment him. His breath hitches slightly, a small sound escaping. He knows how this ends, knows it better than he knows anything else. He resists, and they hurt him, and then they wipe him. Over and over and over again. He is not human. He is a machine. He does not question.  _Remember you deserve this._

Time blurs. Nothing is real except the pain and the darkness. He cannot sleep. The hunger claws at him insistently, desperately. Nothing is real. He is not here. 

***

The door opens and footsteps sound, the first sound he has heard in a while.

"He still alive?"

"He better be."

A hand finds his neck, feels his pulse. He shivers at the touch, almost craving it.

"Yeah, he's alive. And he's not freezing so he won't die without blood just yet. Come on, let's leave him for at least another day or two."

A small whine slips from the soldier's throat but the footsteps are already retreating, the door slamming behind them, and he is alone once more.

Time blurs. Nothing is real except the pain and the darkness. He drifts off to sleep only to jerk awake, swinging in the cuffs as his wrist burns and shoulder aches. The hunger claws at him with fervid desperation. Nothing is real. He is not here. But he is. He is here, and that is the worst part. He cannot escape. It won't stop. It never stops. The small flame in his chest flickers and dies. 

***

There are hands on him, fingers feeling his pulse. Distantly he feels someone remove the cuffs from his ankles. There's clanking and the cuffs on his wrists release, the soldier crumpling to the ground. Hands tug at him, trying to lift him.

"God, he's heavy. Give me a hand, would you?"

There's grunts and many hands heave his body up, putting his arms around two people's shoulders as his head falls forward limply, still blindfolded and masked. Then he is being dragged, broken legs throbbing and feet scraping against cold cement, the soldier too delirious to even twitch at the pain. He's maneuvered into the chair and set down heavily, hands stabilizing him as his body threatens to slip off the chair, cuffs snapping around his arms. The blindfold is unwound from his eyes and he squints as the light blinds him, everything blurring in his vision and pain stabbing in his temples. The mask comes next, unlocking his jaw from its clenched position as he finally sucks in unfiltered air, the scents overwhelming after being without for so long. The hunger spikes as he smells the people in the room, mouth watering and skin prickling with coldness. Footsteps sound and a figure blurs in his vision, stopping in front of him. Then he steps forward to the soldier's right and grips him by the hair, tilting his head up.

"Look at me."

The soldier's eyes find Pierce's, his face swimming in front of him and the light making his head pound, hunger sharpening at the closeness.

"I am your handler. You will not question me. You will follow orders and nothing else. If you don't I will have to hurt you, and I don't want to do that. Understood?"

He soldier blinks heavily, everything hazy and muddled. Pierce tightens his grip, shaking the soldier's head slightly.

"You will respond when spoken to. Understood?" he repeats. 

"Yes," the soldier whispers hoarsely. Pierce's grip on his hair slackens, fingers pressing into his scalp lightly, almost reassuringly.

"Good. You see, I don't like violence, but I realize its necessity. Hydra is trying to make the world a safer place, and when you disobey orders you threaten that. I'm the good guy here. Don't make me have to hurt you to ensure you do your part. Understood?"

This, at least, makes sense. He wants to do good. "Yes." 

"Good." His left hand is still in the soldier's hair, holding gently. He brings up his right wrist to the soldier's mouth. "I'm going to indulge you, because I'm nice like that. You may feed."

Hunger takes over and the soldier mouths over his wrist before sinking his fangs in, warmth flowing through him and washing away the pain and cold. Pierce lets him feed until he feels warm and full before tugging slightly on his hair, the soldier releasing his wrist and licking over the wound. Pierce withdraws his wrist and releases his hold on the soldier's hair, stepping back.

"Now, I've fixed the mess you made. To kill Carter now would bring suspicion, but she's no longer a threat. We have police officers embedded in the force, and they're making sure there's no evidence of you. The blood and fingerprints will come up as someone who bears a passing resemblance to you, a man with a grudge against Shield. And even if she keeps digging as before, there's no evidence that the Starks' death was anything but an accident. Carter should be retiring soon anyway. She's no longer the agent she once was. So, that's handled. You're to be put into cryofreeze until your next mission, in which I expect nothing but success." Pierce nods to the techs. "Wipe him."

The techs type into the computers and the halo whirs above the soldier's head, his breaths picking up as metal clamps around his face and electricity arcs through it, the soldier screaming. It only lasts a few minutes before releasing him, the soldier jerking and gasping, the images and sounds that have plagued him gone once more and only the correction and Pierce clear, everything else hazy and indistinct and mind quiet. He had failed the mission and disobeyed, and he was corrected and wiped. Pierce is his handler. Hydra is making the world a safer place. The soldier must do his part. He breathes and his eyes flick to Pierce, who looks satisfied.

"Soldier?"

_"Ready to comply,"_ he says in Russian, the only way he knows how to respond.

Pierce nods. "Good." He turns to the techs. "Prep him for cryo." 

He turns and leaves the room as the techs approach, gently peeling the bloody bandage away from his throat, the wound finally healed. They check his legs next, mouths tightening as they pull up his pant legs to reveal the bruising where the hammer had struck, healing now that he has fed.

"Can you stand?" one of the techs murmurs to him. "We should get you cleaned up."

"Yes." He can stand, though it will hurt, but it is just pain. The techs release the cuffs and he pushes himself out of the chair, gritting his teeth as pain shoots through his shins. The techs put their arms around him, helping him as he stumbles forward stiffly. Guards move forward to grab him but the techs glare, grips tightening on the soldier.

"We've got this from here," one of the techs says shortly. "I think you've done quite enough."

The guards back off and simply trail behind as the techs help the soldier to a small cement room with a shower head on the wall and a drain in the floor, one ducking out from under the soldier's arm to turn on the shower before helping the other to take the soldier's pants off and shove him under the cold spray, the soldier putting a hand on the wall for support. They leave for a minute, the guards still surrounding the room and watching the soldier as he stands under the shower, no regard for his privacy. The water turns brown as blood washes off the soldier's body, swirling away down the drain. Finally the techs return and shut off the shower, managing to get the soldier into the cryo suit with much difficulty, getting the legs through the tight pants excruciating and the soldier's limbs still weak and uncoordinated. Then one tech takes a rag and wets it, taking the soldier's chin gently and beginning to scrub at the remnants of black paint still around his eyes as the soldier stays still and compliant.

"I'm sorry," the tech murmurs under his breath, so softly the guards can't hear him.

The soldier is not sure why he's apologizing, but he doesn't seem to expect a response so the soldier stays silent, staring off into the middle-distance. Finally the tech draws back and nods and they make the journey back to the room with the chair, passing it and heading for the small alcove in the wall where the cryo chamber stands. The soldier is strapped in and the IV inserted into his arm, respirator put over his face and beads of water still trailing down his neck from his damp hair. The techs type into the computers and the chamber closes with a hiss, frost creeping up as the soldier sinks into darkness with relief.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Implied sexual assault
> 
> If you want to skip it, stop at "the soldier limps over, mind hazy with pain" and pick back up after the cut off (***). It's only a few sentences, and all implied/not graphic. It makes reference to Bucky seeing women in war who had been sexually assaulted, as that was something that was tragically very common.
> 
> Sorry! I promise the recovery will be powerful and inspiring. I don't like hurting my characters at all, and the point is to show human resilience and healthy recovery from trauma. I want to show the contrast between the Russians and the Americans, and why the Winter Soldier seems so much different in catws than what we saw in Civil War of Russia. He's very broken and childlike in catws and looks to Pierce for guidance rather than being the loyal agent and protector like with Karpov. Also Pierce sucks and Rumlow really sucks so...yeah. Rumlow just creeps me out, and the way he looks at Bucky in that bank vault scene is very predatory and strange and fits with this. He seems like someone who gets off on pain ("Order comes through pain. Are you ready for yours?" to Sam) and he taunts Steve in Civil War about the bank vault scene which is twisted af. All around bad dude. I read a meta recently that said that women saw the bank vault scene, with Bucky half-naked and vulnerable and surrounded by men, and went, "oh, that's a rape scene," because if Bucky were a woman, it would be. Male rape is never talked about/shown anywhere but it's actually way more prevalent than we think and needs to be recognized more to decrease stigma and give support to survivors. 
> 
> Resources: RAINN (rainn.org) is a great website with a 24 hour national sexual assault hotline.
> 
> Comments make my day!

He is being pulled out of the cryo chamber and dragged across the room, into the chair, the IV inserted into his hand but cuffs not snapping over his arms. He breathes, coming back to awareness, as the techs move around him, white coats rustling and the clacking of keys sounding as they type away at the screens surrounding the chair. One leans closer and shines a light in the soldier's eyes before taking his pulse, fingers cool against the soldier's skin.  

"Alright, seems good," he finally says. "We're ready for Pierce."

A guard leaves the room and minutes later returns with Pierce trailing after him, looking slightly older but eyes still the same piercing blue as he stares at the soldier, stopping in front of the chair.

"Good morning."

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

The soldier is geared up and driven to a private airstrip, getting on the small plane along with a small team of agents who all regard him warily, the soldier sitting in the center of the plane so that he is surrounded and watched at all times. The flight is long, and eventually the agents start to relax and talk among themselves as the soldier sits quietly, staring into nothingness. He is wearing his tactical gear, including the mask, his eyes smeared with black paint. 

"Is he always like this?" one of the agents asks. He looks to be about thirty, with dark hair and slightly tanned skin, eyes glittering with something that makes the soldier's stomach twist uncomfortably.

Another shrugs. "From what I've seen, yeah. He's apparently, like, a robot. Not actually human. I don't think he, you know, thinks or feels or whatever. Just follows orders."

The first agent studies the soldier, eyes roving as the soldier feels his skin crawl slightly but stays still and silent, staring ahead. "Huh," the agent says. He jerks his head at the soldier. "Hey, soldier."

"What are you doing?" someone hisses.

"Relax," the agent drawls. "Just having some fun. I'm bored out of my mind." He leans forward. "Can you understand me?"

"Of course he can understand-"

"Yes," the soldier replies.

The agent grins, eyes sparkling as he glances at the others. "Look at that, he talks!" The others roll their eyes and the agent turns back to the soldier. "So soldier, you're some sorta robot or something? Built by the Russians or some shit?"

The soldier frowns slightly, not quite sure. He is a machine, but is he a robot? But he supposes that means the same thing, and he was built by the Russians. "Yes."

"No shit?" the agent says incredulously. "I wasn't even serious. Pierce wouldn't tell us anything except that he was a, quote, "valuable asset" and where to point him. I get a feeling he's not telling us everything."

"Well, nothing new there," another snorts. "Pierce has always played things close to the vest. The asset must just be another one of those things. You know, they say he's been operating for close to fifty years. Like a boogeyman, you know. Step out of line and the Winter Soldier will come for you. He must be some sort of robot to have operated for that long."

"Yeah." The agent studies the soldier. "Wonder what he looks like under that mask."

"Pierce will have your head if you take it off," another warns. 

The agent flaps a hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Just curious." He addresses the soldier once more. "How old are you?"

The soldier searches but comes up with nothing. "I don't know."

 "Huh. I guess he's a robot so he doesn't really have an age. But okay, I do have one question. Why the hell does he only have one metal arm? Like, they went to the trouble of making the rest of him look human, and then they gave him a metal arm? Makes no sense."

Someone shrugs. "I don't know. That is strange. Maybe it got damaged or something."

The agent leans forward, looking at the soldier. "Why do you have a metal arm?"

"I was injured."

"How'd you get it?"

"I don't know."

The agent sighs. "Jesus Christ, he's not very helpful. What  _do_ you know?"

The soldier searches his mental catalogue. "I am the Winter Soldier. I am a skilled operative. I serve Russia and Hydra. Hydra is making the world a safer place. Kar-no, Pierce is my handler. I am not human. I am a vampire. I am a machine. I do not question. I only follow orders."

"Wait, wait, hold the-hold the fuck up, did you say  _vampire?"_

"Yes."

The agent stares. "What the  _fuck?_ Are you fucking with me?"

The soldier frowns. "No."

The agent turns to the others, who all look equally shocked, before facing the soldier once more. "Okay, let me get this straight, you're some mythical creature? Not a robot?"

"I-yes." The soldier is confused. He is a vampire, but he is also a machine.

The agent scrubs a hand over his face. "What the hell? No, nope, there's no way. I'm not believing this. Robot, I could believe, but vampire? No."

"I'm not so sure," one of the others says. "You've heard about the Black Widow. They say she seduces her victims and then drains their blood. And the Winter Soldier, you said it yourself, he's a boogeyman. No one ever sees him coming, and he's operated for _fifty_ years. Immortality would explain that, and why he still looks pretty young from what I can see."

The agent scrutinizes the soldier. "You're really a vampire?"

"Yes."

"You feed on blood?"

"Yes."

"Jesus Christ. Then why did you say yes when I asked if you were a robot?"

The soldier frowns. "I...am a machine."

"But you're a vampire."

"Yes." The soldier is not sure why he's asking the same question.

The agent throws up his hands. "You can't be a vampire and a robot at the same time. A robot vampire? No. That makes no sense. You're either one or the other."

The soldier blinks, confused and slightly agitated. "I don't-I don't know. I don't understand."

The agent squints at the soldier. "You don't seem to know much of anything. But you said yes when I asked if the Russians built you. So what, they made you into a vampire?"

"Yes?" they said they made him, but he doesn't remember. Was he turned  _into_ a vampire from...something else, or just created? 

"You don't know?"

"I-yes. They created me."

"Right. When?"

"I don't know."

"Right. And then you worked for them and Hydra for fifty years? You've been alive that whole time?"

"No."

"No what?"

"I was put in stasis between missions."

"Stasis...what like, a coffin?" The agent and a few others chuckle.

"No."

"What the hell does stasis mean then?"

"Cryofreeze."

"Cryo-seriously? But you're a vampire. Aren't you, like, immortal or something?"

"I don't know."

"You don't-" the agent pinches the bridge of his nose. "How do you not know these things?"

The soldier searches for the answer, one ingrained with pain and screams. "I do not need to. I do not question. I only follow orders."

The agent sighs. "Right. Created by the Russians. I guess you are sorta like a robot, at least mind-wise." He settles back against his chair. "Well, this has been enlightening. I think I'm going to have some words with Pierce when I get back." He digs in his pockets and withdraws a pack of cards, turning to the others. "Blackjack, anyone?"

***

They land on a deserted stretch of land surrounded by trees, the soldier following the agents as they pile out into the warm air. They start heading through forest and scrubland, the surface-to-air missile launcher carried by the soldier. The trek is long and the agents scan their surroundings carefully for hostiles, heading towards a hill where men can be seen patrolling. The agents take cover in the tree line near the hill, waiting.

"Okay," the agent says. "We still have about an hour until the plane is due to land. Soldier, you find a way onto the hill without anyone seeing you, and then you take down the plane while we deal with the guards. You got all the information, right?"

"Yes." The soldier has been briefed on the exact plane and where it will land, though not told who the target is. It is 1994, he knows this much, and they are in Rwanda. He thinks the Russians had always told him more, and it rankles within him even though he knows not to question.  

"Alright, let's move out."

They creep up the hill, the soldier making himself invisible as he slips through the grass with unnatural grace. The agents quietly take down some of the guards and the soldier finds an acceptable spot, loading the missile into the launcher and waiting, the agents making sure he will remain undisturbed. The soldier settles into blank stillness, the minutes ticking by and metal shoulder aching but the soldier ignoring it, focused on the mission. It is just pain. Finally his enhanced ears pick up the rumble of a plane approaching and he readies his shot, the plane circling around the airport in the distance before coming in for a final approach. The soldier breathes and fires, the missile hitting the plane's wing. He reloads and fires again and it hits the tail, the plane erupting into flames mid-air before crashing into the garden of a palace and exploding on impact. The soldier gathers the launcher and slips away, the agents close behind him. They make the long trek back to the small airplane and climb in, taking off into the clear blue sky. 

"So," the agent says, once they've settled in and are in the air, "it seems your skills are not overestimated, soldier."

The soldier stays silent, as he has not been asked a question. The agent studies him.

"He's one creepy motherfucker," he remarks to the other agents. "Don't think he's even blinked."

The other agents side-eye him warily. "Knock it off," one whispers. "I don't want him turning on us."

The agent snorts. "I don't think he'll do anything unless someone tells him to. He's some sorta science experiment vampire the Russians created that just follows orders. He's not a person."

"But what do you think Pierce will do to us if he finds out we know?" another agent hisses. "He could turn him on us."

The agent shakes his head. "I don't know about you all, but not me. It's not like I'm going to tell anyone. This is a Hydra secret. Pierce knows how loyal I am. Besides, if he didn't want the asset talking he should've found a way to shut him up. It's a good thing he doesn't actually seem to know anything, or he'd be blabbing secrets right and left."

The agents fall silent and soon move on from the soldier to other topics, the soldier sitting silent and still in his seat for the rest of the ride. 

When they get to the airstrip guards greet them, ready to load the soldier into a van, but the agent stops them.

"Hey, I need to have a word with Pierce. About him." He jerks his head at the soldier. " _I know,"_ he says significantly.

The guards hesitate before motioning him into the van. The agent climbs in, settling opposite the soldier. They drive to the base in silence, the agent following the guards as they escort the soldier into the bank, instructing the agent to wait above as they take the elevator down to the vault. The soldier sinks into the chair as the techs approach, taking off his mask and scrubbing the paint from his eyes. Then they wait for Pierce, typing into computers as they ignore the soldier.

After a while footsteps sound and Pierce walks into the vault accompanied by the agent, who stares at the soldier with disbelieving fascination. 

"I can't believe it," he murmurs to Pierce. "It's really him. I learned about him as a kid. He was in all my history books."

Pierce nods. "Yes, and so you understand why his identity must be carefully concealed."

"Of course. Thank you for trusting me with this, Secretary Pierce."

"You are one of our most loyal agents, and I've been keeping an eye on you for a while. I think bringing you in on this with be beneficial to Hydra. You will be in charge of handling him in the field, where I can't be, ensuring he's under competent and informed management at all times."

"Understood. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't." Pierce turns to the soldier. "This is Brock Rumlow. You will answer to him when in the field and when I am not present. Understood?"

"Yes."

"You will not divulge any information to anyone besides he or I, or there will be consequences. Unless you are discussing tactics in the field, or answering the technicians' questions you will not speak to anyone but us, ever. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, I'm guessing there are some agents with loose lips. I'll need cleanup."

***

The soldier is led to the correction room- _cell-_ with its cement walls and table and restraints, shut inside for the night behind the heavy door. He curls up in the corner on the hard floor and eventually falls asleep, waking sometime later and sitting in the cell for hours until the door swings open and guards escort him to be prepped for the mission. Rumlow briefs him and leads him into the van, driving to near the location before setting the soldier loose to find the agent turned target.

The soldier crouches on the rooftop, peering through his scope. The agent moves inside through the curtains, laughing as he bounces a baby in his arms before passing it off to a smiling woman, shifting right in front of the window. The soldier lines up the shot, breathes, and fires. The man crumples to the ground as the woman screams, the baby in her arms spattered with blood. The soldier picks up the rifle and slips away across the rooftop, swinging down the building to the ground with fluid movements and melting into the darkness. 

He returns to the extraction point and climbs into the van, returning to the bank.

"Mission report," Pierce orders.

"Target eliminated."

"Good. We have another target."

He's sent back out. The soldier slips into the house, following the sound of voices. 

"You'll never believe what I found out," the agent says lowly. The soldier slips into the room behind the target's chair, moving forward soundlessly. "There's-"

The soldier's hand wraps around his throat. The man in the chair opposite freezes, eyes wide. The soldier withdraws a gun and presses it into the agent's hand, pointing it at the other. The man starts to move to get away but the soldier tightens the agent's finger around the trigger and fires and he slumps, dead. The agent is choking under his metal hand, hand trembling on the gun. The soldier brings the gun up to the agent's temple and fires. The agent slumps over the side of the floor and the soldier lets the gun slide from his grasp. Then he slips away, no trace he was ever there.

He climbs into the van and they return to the bank.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated."

He's led to the cell again and locked in, still in tac pants and a shirt but without his weapons. He drifts off eventually and then wakes, but he's left in the cell for a long time. Finally guards retrieve him and arm him, putting on the jacket that covers both arms and sending him out into the afternoon light, the soldier squinting after being in the dark for so long but the eye paint helping to keep the sun from blinding him. 

The soldier turns the gas on and blows out the pilot light, making sure to close all the windows. He waits for hours outside until the agent steps into the house, loosening his tie. The soldier aims and fires a small round, watching as the agent goes up in flames.

He returns to the extraction point and is driven back to the bank as darkness falls. 

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated."

"Good." Pierce turns to Rumlow. "I'm needed in New York. I'm trusting you to take over until the last agents are eliminated. The asset will probably need to be fed in a day or so or sooner if he's injured, but the techs will handle that and cryofreeze when it's done. You've been briefed on everything you need to know so I trust you will know how to handle any...hiccups. He's in your hands."

Rumlow smiles slightly, something predatory and edged. "Understood, sir. I have it handled."

Pierce leaves and the soldier is led into the cell again, still dressed. Hunger is starting to gnaw at him and the static in his mind has kicked up, small flashes and distorted sounds making him twitchy. He falls asleep but jerks awake a little while later, the dream fading before he can hold onto it. He doesn't dream. The soldier lays awake for the rest of the night and presumably the day until the guards retrieve him, feeling unsettled. 

Rumlow briefs him, chest puffed out and a confident gleam in his eyes, obviously relishing being put in charge. He tells the soldier how he is to eliminate the agent but the soldier knows that it is a bad plan, too many variables and opportunities for failure. The Russians always let him plan his own missions, to an extent, and were willing to listen to the soldier's strategies.

"No," he says.

Rumlow stares. " _What_ did you say to me?"

The soldier swallows but gathers himself. "The plan is flawed. Eliminating the target by another means would draw less attention and reduce the possibility of failure."

Rumlow's face tightens and his eyes go dark. "I think you're forgetting that  _I_ give the orders, soldier."

The soldier feels frustration rise and clenches his jaw, meeting Rumlow's eyes defiantly. Rumlow's face turns an ugly color and he steps forward to backhand the soldier across the face, making his cheek sting as he brings his head around, rage sparking in his chest.

"You will follow orders, soldier," Rumlow hisses. "You do not question me or think for yourself." He turns to the techs. "Prep him."

The techs fit the mask over his face and smear black paint around his eyes as the soldier sits silently with rage and frustration building inside. Rumlow isn't his handler. He's only filling in for Pierce. And he is  _wrong._ The soldier's mind is capable of calculating the optimal strategy better than any human, and he knows this. He thinks that the Russians let him plan his own missions and carry them out because they knew this too. He thinks-he thinks he remembers this, somehow, remembers arguing against  _stupid goddamn plans that are gonna get you killed Rogers, I swear to god-_

"-et's go." Rumlows' voice snaps him out of his daze. The soldier gets up, following Rumlow out into the waiting van and sitting in silence as they drive towards the location. Rumlow still looks slightly angry but calm, assuming that the soldier has given in. The soldier has, he thinks, will follow Rumlow's orders, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it. 

The mission is a  _goddamn shitshow._ The soldier is compromised, the agent realizing he's there, and he's thrown back with the force of the explosion, pain flaring in his right side. His jacket is burned away and melded to his flesh in areas, raw burns covering his entire right side from shoulder to thigh. He manages to stagger to the extraction point, teeth gritted against the pain. Rumlow's face darkens when he sees him, the agents pulling him inside the van without care for his comfort.

"Jesus Christ," Rumlow swears. "Did you fuck that up on purpose? At least tell me the agent is dead."

"Target. Eliminated." The soldier grits out. "Bad. Fucking. Plan."

He catches the slight widening of Rumlow's eyes and the spike of fear before he schools his expression, eyes glittering with malice. "You're asking for it now, soldier. You seem to have forgotten your place. You're due for a reminder."

The soldier feels fear coil in his gut and stays silent, head pounding and side burning with agony. The guards don't help him out when they arrive at base and he's made to stumble in under his own power, hunger clawing at him and making his head fuzzy. The technicians gape as soon as he enters the room, quickly scurrying to sit him down in the chair and insert the IV, relief flowing through the soldier.

Rumlow strides into the room, pinning the techs with a glare. "No. Take that out."

"But he's injured-"

"I don't care. He's not going to die, is he?"

"Well, no-"

"Then take it out. He needs to learn a lesson."

The techs reluctantly slide the IV out, the soldier gritting his teeth against the sudden lack, the pain in his side redoubling.

"Leave," Rumlow says to the guards, grabbing the soldier's arm and tugging him up, shoving him towards the correction cell.

"But-" one protests.

"Leave."

The guards file out and Rumlow shoves the soldier into the cell, the soldier falling to the ground as Rumlow strides through and slams the heavy door behind him, the soldier knowing the room is completely soundproofed. A boot connects with the soldier's ribs and he wheezes, curling on the floor as pain spikes through his body.

"You did that on purpose!" Rumlow snarls at the soldier. "You made me look like an  _idiot!"_ He punctuates every few words with kick. "You questioned me, you  _humiliated_ me in front of everyone. I was supposed to prove my worth to Pierce and you  _ruined_ it!" The soldier feels a rib snap. "You're  _never_ going to do this again... _Never._ You'll fucking...listen...to...me...never question me... _ever_ again!"

Rumlow finally stops, panting. The soldier makes a small sound, choking and wheezing and every inch of his body hurting as he lays curled on the floor. This is not the Russians, he thinks. The Russians were always controlled, always hurt him with calculated intent to correct the flaws in his programming. This is just violent rage, but a lesson all the same. He will never question Rumlow again. 

"You think you're...so smart," Rumlow pants. "You think you know better than me? You're nothing but a  _dog._ You're a mindless machine. You have no authority, nothing.  _I'm_ the one in control. You're gonna do whatever the  _fuck_ I tell you to, no matter what." Rumlow steps nearer and crouches down next to the soldier, a small, twisted smile on his face. "I'm in complete control. I can make you do  _anything."_ He shivers slightly, licking his lips as his eyes rove over the soldier. "Anything," he repeats, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He stands. "Get up."

The soldier struggles, pushing himself to his feet and hunching over his broken ribs, burned right arm held limply and weight settled on his left leg. 

Rumlow looks pleased and flushed. "Walk over there." He points to the wall, where cuffs hang at head level about shoulder width apart.

The soldier limps over, mind hazy with pain. Rumlow approaches, a hungry gleam in his eyes, suddenly slamming the soldier face-first into the wall and lifting his arms one by one, snapping the cuffs over his wrists so they hang on either side of his head. The position strains both his arms and makes his broken ribs protest, the soldier slumping against the wall slightly. Then Rumlow's hands sneak around his waist and fiddle with his pants, undoing the zipper and pulling them down, and the soldier's breath hitches in confusion. There's the sound of a zipper behind him, and the soldier starts to struggle against the cuffs as something inside him realizes what's about to happen. For some reason his mind conjures up images of glassy-eyed women flinching away from soldiers, of softly spoken French and stark bruises around pale throats, of striped clothing and gaunt faces and haunted eyes. He struggles against the cuffs desperately but he's weak and injured and the cuffs only burn his wrists, legs scrabbling uselessly on the floor as Rumlow pins him in place. 

"Stay still," Rumlow says, and his hand digs into the soldier's burned side, making him bite down on a scream. Pure, unadulterated panic fills him and a whimper escapes, the soldier pressing his forehead into the wall as he trembles and jerks with the pain. This is not the Russians. The Russians would never do this. There is no purpose to this except to hurt him, to show that Rumlow is in complete control. Rumlow is saying something, breath hot against his neck, but the soldier feels himself retreating into his head where it is safe and quiet, going limp against the wall.

***

His pants are being tugged up and fastened and there's the sound of a zipper, hot breath on his ear. His head is turned to the side, cheek resting on the wall and eyes staring into the distance unblinkingly.

"You will not speak a word of this," Rumlow says lowly. "My plan was good. You were injured on the mission and questioned me, and I was forced to punish you. The mission was a success. Pierce has no reason to doubt my abilities. Got it?"

The soldier stares at the far wall, mind numb and blank. Rumlow threads his fingers through the soldier's hair and tugs sharply. The soldier blinks, coming up slightly from the blankness.

"Got it?"

"Yes." It's barely audible, no more than a whisper.

"Good." Rumlow releases his grip and brushes a sweaty strand of hair away from the soldier's temple, touch almost gentle. "Good boy. Remember, not a word. And you'll never question me again."

"Yes."

Rumlow releases him, undoing the cuffs to let the soldier crumple to the ground where he lies curled. Rumlow's footsteps retreat and there's the sound of the door creaking open.

"He's all yours." His footsteps keep going, disappearing, as two lighter steps rush towards the soldier and he recognizes the technicians by smell and sound. There's rustling as they crouch down next to him, a gentle hand finding his neck and feeling his pulse as the soldier stares ahead blankly, cheek pressed to the floor.

"What the hell did he do to him?" one murmurs.

"I don't know, but these injuries are bad. We should have looked at them when he first came in, and he definitely should have gotten blood." The technician clicks his tongue. "Despicable. He's a valuable asset, and they treat him with absolutely no care. I would never do this to my dog. I always say you catch more flies with honey."

"I agree. I am a strong believer in Hydra and I know the necessity of the soldier, but I don't condone the cruelty. I fear they will cost us the soldier one day if this continues. We need him strong and focused, not injured and confused. And if he ever realizes...they're the first ones he's going for. Kindness inspires more loyalty than fear ever will."

There's a sigh. "Yeah. We can only do our jobs and hope it's enough. Come on, let's get him up."

They attempt to pull him off the floor but he's too heavy and they give up, panting. One crouches down again.

"Soldier, can you get up? We want to help you, but we can't move you ourselves and everyone else is gone."

The soldier blinks slowly before pushing himself up and struggling to his feet, swaying. His mind is still blank, everything muted and numb. He doesn't even feel the pain anymore, only a distant sort of ache. The techs get their arms around him, throwing his arms over their shoulders as they help him limp from the room. They deposit him in the chair, all the guards gone but the technicians not afraid of the soldier anymore. They don't even snap the cuffs over his arms.

"I'm sorry, but we need to get your jacket off and all the pieces out before we can let the burns heal," one of the techs says.

The soldier doesn't respond. The techs begin to carefully undo his jacket and slide it off, pieces of it ripping away from the burned flesh but the soldier not even flinching. Then the techs cut away the fabric on his right thigh, beginning to extract the melted pieces of fabric embedded into his flesh with tweezers. The soldier doesn't twitch. He is not here, not fully. He is in his head, where nothing hurts. 

Finally they debride the wounds until all that is left is burned flesh. An IV is inserted into his hand and warmth flows through him, the soldier slumping back against the chair but eyes remaining fixed on a point in the middle-distance. The techs prod his ribs, frowning.

"I think he's got a few broken ones but nothing's out of place. They should be healing now. Looks like he took a boot to the ribs. Repeatedly."

The other grimaces, lowering his voice and stepping closer to the first tech. "Had a bad feeling about that Rumlow guy. Looks like someone who takes pleasure in hurting people. Or the soldier, in this case. I think he's got some sort of control complex. Got real mad when the soldier questioned his plan."

"The soldier's plan was probably better," the first one mutters, head ducked. "He's the Winter Soldier, he knows what he's doing. If he wasn't the best, we wouldn't need him."

The other suddenly looks behind him, at where the camera blinks in the wall, before turning back. "Not here," he says lowly. 

The first one nods, then checks his watch. "That should be enough for the injuries to heal."

Sure enough the burns are starting to resolve and the soldier's ribs knitting back together, everything tingling and aching as the blood continues to flow steadily through the IV and washes away the hunger. The technicians finally stop the IV and remove it, stepping back.

"Okay, let's get you cleaned up. Come on."

The soldier gets up, moving easier now that his injuries are healing. He walks stiffly to the shower room, waiting. One of the techs turns on the shower, addressing the soldier.

"We're going to go get clothes and something to take off the paint. Go ahead and undress and start getting clean. I trust you won't try to go anywhere."

The soldier just blinks slowly. The techs disappear through the door and the soldier takes off his boots and ripped pants robotically, the blankness taking over again as he pulls them down. He throws them somewhere to the side and stands under the cold spray, letting the water run down his back and wash away blood and things he doesn't want to think about, doesn't acknowledge. The water stings on his healing burns but he ignores the spark of pain. He moves to run his head under the water but it threatens to drag him out of blankness as memories of damp cloth over his face and water filling his mouth make him twitch, and he turns to let the water cascade down his back again. 

The techs return, carrying a towel, a pile of clothes, a washcloth, and soap. One sets the towel and clothes on the bench and the other approaches the soldier, stepping right up to wet the washcloth and grip the soldier's chin gently as he starts to scrub away the black paint from his eyes. The soldier stays still and silent, staring ahead unblinking. Finally the tech finishes and holds out the bar of soap to the soldier. The soldier takes it, knowing what to do. He washes with clinical efficiency before handing the soap back to the tech. The tech shuts off the shower and the other approaches with a towel, drying the soldier off before pointing him towards the clothes on the bench. The soldier pulls on the simple black pants and soft shirt, feet bare and damp hair still dripping down his neck and hanging in tangled strands around his face. He follows the techs back to the room with the chair, heading across it and towards the cell as fear tugs at him through the blankness. The techs hesitate in the doorway.

"Do we really have to put him back in here for the night? That's just...cruel. There's not even a bed, and he's just been tortured in here."

The other sighs. "I know. But it's the only secure room, and orders are orders. We can't just leave him out."

The first nods, grimacing. "Alright soldier, in you go."

The soldier walks in, a tremor going through him and a choking feeling in his throat. The door closes after him and he flinches, stumbling into the furthest corner from the cuffs in the wall and sinking to the ground, knees drawn up. He's trembling, breaths hitching and body flaring with lingering pain. He whimpers, curling tighter into the corner and squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself back into blankness. Eventually he drifts off into a restless sleep, jerking awake every hour with a scream on his lips. This is not Russia. He wants to go back to Russia. He wants to go home.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Sexual assault

He sits in the cell for hours. His injuries have finally healed, only faint reddish scars on his right side where the burns had been, as if the skin is merely discolored. The soldier sits in the oppressive silence, staring ahead blankly, until the door finally opens and guards escort him to the armory. He dons his tactical gear and waits in the chair for orders, techs puttering around him. Rumlow strides in and fear washes through the soldier but he keeps himself carefully still and silent, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. Rumlow snaps his fingers.

"Hey, look at me."

The soldier drags his gaze up to Rumlow's, repressing a shiver. Rumlow smirks. 

"I have your next mission. And this time you're going to follow my plan instead of fucking up, right?"

"Yes."

"Good. This time it's personal. I want that son of a bitch to know who's coming for him."

The soldier slips into the house, the alarm system disabled, heading towards where he can hear soft breathing and a rapid heartbeat. He steps through the doorway of the living room to see the agent sitting in the chair by the fire, gun in hand. The soldier purposefully makes his footsteps audible and the man startles, looking up and training his gun on the soldier.

"I knew you'd come," the agent says. "The rest all went one by one. I knew I was next."

The soldier stays silent, partially cloaked in shadow, the flickering flames from the fireplace the only light in the room.

"I knew I shouldn't have said anything," the agent continues after a while. "But I couldn't not. I'm not sure I really believe in Hydra anymore. At least I'll die with a clear conscience, and I made sure they'll never find my family." He lowers the gun. "They say you always make it quick."

The soldier moves forward, the agent not even attempting to fight back. The soldier's metal hand wraps around the agent's throat.

"Rumlow sends his regards," he rasps as instructed.

The man's eyes widen but the soldier's hand tightens on his throat and he chokes before falling limp, heartbeat stopping. The soldier slips away, returning to the extraction point. Rumlow is waiting as he's led into the vault, anticipatory gleam in his eye. 

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated. Message delivered."

Rumlow smiles. "Good job. That's the last of the agents. Time for you to head back to dreamland, soldier."

He leaves and the technicians prep him for cryo, scrubbing off the black paint from his eyes and dressing him in the cryo suit. He's strapped in and the door shut, the soldier closing his eyes as relief washes through him.

***

He's dragged out of cryo and into the chair, cuffs snapping over his arms as whirring starts over his head and his breaths pick up. Metal clamps over his face and the world whites out in pain, the soldier screaming. Electricity sparks through his mind for minutes until finally stopping, the clamps releasing him with a jerk. The soldier heaves for breath, body trembling and voices swirling around him. His mind whirls and quiets as knowledge slots into place, everything except relevant knowledge, skills, and corrections foggy and indistinct. He knows he had completed missions, but he can't quite remember them. Pain, though, he remembers that. He knows it better than he knows anything else.

Footsteps sound and Pierce steps up in front of him. _Pierce, Alexander. Hydra. Handler_ , his brain informs him.

"Good morning, soldier."

_"Ready to comply."_

 "I have a mission for you."

The soldier is flown out to Oregon via helicopter. Rumlow is with him and looks a few years older, like Pierce, and the soldier's skin crawls whenever his eyes land on him. They land and meet a few agents there, the soldier ignoring them. He only reports to Rumlow, is not allowed to speak to anyone else, he remembers this. The soldier is given his sniper rifle with it's unrifled slugs and takes out a scientist returning from the isolated research facility in the desert. It's hot, and the soldier's tac gear and mask offer no relief from the heat. Luckily, however, they've fashioned tinted goggles that help block the sun from his sensitive eyes. The soldier returns to the extraction point and he and Rumlow fly back, returning to the bank. 

"Mission report," Pierce orders.

"Target eliminated."

Pierce smiles. "Good job. You've just made the world a safer place."

The soldier feels a warm spark in his chest. He's doing good.

"We're putting together a new team of agents I'd like you to meet," Pierce continues. "We'll start tomorrow. Get some rest."

With a last benevolent smile Pierce leaves, the soldier led into the cell and the door closed and secured after him. He sits in the corner, not tired enough to fall asleep just yet. A couple hours pass and the soldier is just about to lie down when the door opens and Rumlow steps through, the soldier pushing himself to his feet as his heart skips a beat. Rumlow smiles, predatory and edged.

"Hello soldier. It's been a while."

It's been years for Rumlow but only a day for the soldier. The soldier stays stock still, fear coiling in his gut. Rumlow strides closer, unafraid, stopping next to the table and patting it.

"Come closer," he says lowly, crooking his finger in a beckoning gesture and smirking. 

The soldier cannot disobey orders and he feels his feet move without conscious control, stepping up to the table. Rumlow suddenly takes the metal arm and snaps it into one of the cuffs before the soldier can react, pushing him so the soldier is facing the table. Then Rumlow is grabbing his right wrist and twisting his arm behind his back, slamming him down face-first onto the table with the other so he's bent over it with left arm cuffed awkwardly and right in an iron grip, Rumlow pressing against him. A hand fumbles at his pants and the soldier feels panic wash over him, building and building until something snaps inside and everything goes away, the soldier's body falling limp as he retreats inside his head.

***

The hand in his hair yanks, lifting his head off the table. Rumlow's wrist presses to his mouth, the soldier's hunger sharpening.

"Feed," Rumlow orders. "Till you heal. I want no sign anything happened."

The soldier sinks his teeth into Rumlow's wrist, something in him repulsed. It tastes wrong, but he keeps drinking until he can feel his injuries healing before letting go. Rumlow presses against his back to unlock the cuff on his left wrist, leaning down so his mouth is next to the soldier's ear.

"Remember, not a word," he murmurs, the soldier shuddering against the hot breath tickling his ear. Rumlow unlocks the cuff and steps back, the soldier leaning on the table heavily. "I'll see you soon," Rumlow says, and then he opens the door and steps through, closing it behind him and leaving the soldier alone. The soldier stumbles to the corner and curls up, something aching in his chest.

***

He drifts off to sleep eventually only to be woken a little while later by the guards. They lead him to a training room, a line of young-looking agents standing nervously in the middle and Pierce waiting for him with Rumlow beside him. Pierce smiles, the agents all staring at the soldier with fear and awe.

"This is the Winter Soldier. I have hand-selected all of you for your loyalty and skills in the field. You are to be the designated team to work with the soldier. Today is to see how well you can work with him. The team will be headed up by agent Rumlow, who the soldier will report to in the field. Do not expect to interact with the soldier beyond tactics. He will not respond to you or follow your orders. Understood?"

The agents all nod vigorously.

"Good. Now, let's have you try to spar against him to get a sense of how he fights." Pierce turns to the soldier. "Nonlethal. Don't hurt them."

The soldier blinks and moves forward, readying. He knows this, sparring. 

"Begin."

The agents move forward, drawing into fighting stances but their rapid heartbeats giving away their nervousness. The soldier waits for them to make the first move before gliding into action, quickly blocking strikes and sending the agents to the ground with nothing but bruises. All ten are down in less than thirty seconds and the soldier stands, waiting, the agents groaning on the ground. 

"Good," Pierce says. "Wonderful." The agents get up, wincing and looking stunned. "As you can see, he is unparalleled. He generally completes missions by himself, but you must be there for backup and to ensure that there are no witnesses or proof. You may be required to do cleanup afterwards, such as obscuring evidence or contacting our agents in local law enforcement. You've been briefed on his enhancements; if he is injured and cannot make it back to base you will be expected to give him blood. You will all be given silver bullets in case he malfunctions in the field, but I doubt it will be an issue. Follow agent Rumlow's lead and everything should go according to plan. Understood?"

The agents all nod and there's a chorus of "Yessir's."

"Good. Are you ready for your first mission?"

The soldier is geared up and put into a van with half of the agents and Rumlow, the other half right behind. The agents seem nervous and their glances keep flicking to the soldier but Rumlow is self-assured, stretching out in his seat with a slight smirk as he watches the soldier. The soldier sits silently, staring at the opposite wall and making his mind blank. The trip is long and silent but finally they arrive, the soldier jumping down from the van and taking the weapon handed to him. He picks a hidden spot next to the quiet street and waits, silencer screwed to his gun. Finally the car crawls down the road and the soldier aims and fires, taking out the tire and sending it careening to crash into a light pole. The agents in the vans jump out, opening the car and dragging the target out and into the first van with a hood over his head. The soldier makes his way back to the first van and climbs in, gun taken from him, only two agents staying to guard the prisoner while the rest and the ones in the second van stay to secure the scene. Rumlow climbs in and taps on the wall to let the driver know they're ready. They drive away, back to the base, the prisoner's shallow breaths and rapid heartbeat evidence of his fear as he sits cuffed and hooded between two agents. When they reach the base he's taken inside to the training room and forced to his knees, hood taken off as Pierce steps up. The young man blinks, looking around wildly. His eyes flick to the soldier before coming to rest on Pierce and widening.

"Secretary Pierce?" the man says in disbelief. "What-what is this? Where am I?"

Pierce sighs. "Oh Tim, I do wish you'd come to me. But instead you just had to dig into Shield's affairs."

The man- _Tim-_ glares at Pierce. "Seems I was right to do so. If there's one thing my grandfather taught me, it was to never give up."

"And I'm sure your grandfather would be very proud," Pierce says lightly. "Quite a legacy you have. Grandson of Timothy Dugan, one of the original Howling Commandos. He served with Captain America himself."

Tim tilts his chin up. "Yeah, he did. Fought against scum like you. Now, who the hell are you really? And what's going on inside Shield? Where am I?"

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you now." Tim gulps, looking like he realizes he's not getting out of here alive. Pierce smiles. "Shield is Hydra. It has been all along. You can go to your grave knowing that everything you and your beloved grandfather fought for was for nothing. Oh, and one more thing. Why I've brought you here." He turns to the soldier. "Take off your mask, and then kill him."

Slightly confused but not questioning the soldier takes off his mask, letting it fall to the floor. There's a gasp, and Tim's eyes widen.

"Sergeant Barnes?"

The soldier raises his gun, and shoots him between the eyes.

Pierce turns, waving a hand at the agents. "Clean this up. Come on, soldier."

The soldier follows him into the room with the chair, something prickling at his mind.  _Sergeant Barnes-_

"Why did he call me Sergeant Barnes?" he asks, sinking into the chair.

"He was confused," Pierce says offhand. "You must have looked like someone he knew."

The soldier frowns. "Who is Sergeant Barnes?"

"No one. Someone he must have known." Pierce pulls up a stool, sitting facing the soldier. Unthreatening. "You don't need to think about these things. You only exist to follow orders, remember?" His voice is almost gentle.

The soldier feels himself relent. "Yes."

Pierce smiles slightly. "Good. You've done well, soldier. You can rest now."

The soldier feels relief. He's doing good. Pierce is pleased. Pierce answers his questions and doesn't want to hurt him. Pierce is  _the good guy here._ The soldier likes Pierce.

Pierce leaves and the soldier is prepped for cryo, sinking into darkness.

***

He's pulled out of cryo and into the chair, cuffs snapping over his arms and clamps tightening over his face. The electricity lasts a minute before he's released, breathing heavily as he comes back to awareness. Everything is hazy, memories indistinct but knowledge intact.

"Good morning, soldier." Pierce, Alexander. Handler. He looks older, the soldier thinks.

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

***

He fires and the target crumples to the ground. He returns to the base. 

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated."

"Good job. Tomorrow there's going to be training to keep your skills sharp and help the agents. Get some rest."

The techs look older as well. One is balding and has a beard and glasses while the other always wears a bowtie. They are efficient but careful. They do not hurt him. The soldier is led into the cell for the night and Rumlow steps in a couple hours later. He does hurt the soldier. Rumlow makes him feed again, erasing the evidence of what has transpired. The blood tastes wrong but the soldier chokes it down, Rumlow's hand tugging painfully on his hair. He curls up in the corner, staring blankly at the wall.

Guards fetch him in the morning. He's brought into the training room and put through his paces. Agility, hand-to-hand, target practice, knife work. Finally he spars with the agents, all of them against him and the agents allowed to hurt him more than the soldier is them. They get stun batons, and the soldier only has himself. He is a weapon. 

A stun baton jams into his side and he grunts, caught off balance for a moment. An arm wraps around his neck, body pressing to his back and the soldier panics, throwing him off to smash against the wall and crumple to the floor. Someone strikes out at him and he counters it, mind going white with fear as he lashes out against the hands reaching for him, hands on his body, not stopping, make it stop make it stop  _make it stop-_

"Stand down!"

There is yelling and screaming but the soldier doesn't hear it, tearing through the agents. A bullet hits his thigh but he ignores it, eyes landing on Rumlow as hot rage and something else sparks in his chest. He lunges towards him with a scream, Rumlow's eyes going wide before a second bullet brings the soldier crashing to the floor. Hands restrain him and he thrashes, screaming.

"Don't touch me, don't touch me, make it stop, make it stop-"

He's dragged to the chair and the cuffs snap over his arms, the soldier fading slightly out of reality as his struggles cease and he stares ahead blankly, body limp in the chair. Pierce walks into the room, closely followed by Rumlow, the techs jogging after them to stand by the soldier.

Pierce pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at the soldier. "What the hell happened? It's like he just went insane."

The tech with glasses shakes his head. "I don't know. That shouldn't have happened. It's only been a day since the wipe and there was nothing to set him off."

Pierce turns to Rumlow, narrowing his eyes. "He went after you. Why?"

Rumlow shrugs, but his heart skips a beat. "I was probably closest."

"Hmm." Pierce looks like he doesn't quite believe this. He turns to the soldier. "Soldier, explain."

The soldier barely hears him, floating in and out of reality as the silver bullets burn into his thighs. Pierce steps forward, leaning down to peer into his eyes before backhanding him across the face. The soldier's head snaps around, breathing picking up as he tugs on the restraints.

"Soldier, explain."

The soldier is starting to hyperventilate, breaths hitching and body trembling. He can't he can't he can't,  _not a word,_ he can't, he wants it to stop, make it stop make it stop make it stop-

"Do something until he's...back to normal. I don't care what it takes. I'll be back tonight, and then we'll wipe him again." Pierce's footsteps retreat, leaving the soldier alone with Rumlow and the techs, guards stationed around the room. 

"Let us get these bullets out first," Bowtie says. "Please. It could cause permanent damage."

Rumlow sighs. "Fine."

The techs dig the bullets out of the soldier's legs, working in silence. They've barely taken them out before Rumlow unlocks the cuffs and drags the soldier to the cell, throwing him onto the floor.

"Do you want help?" The head guard asks.

"I've got it," Rumlow says. "You can leave for now." He shuts the door, sealing them inside and stalking forward to kick the soldier in the ribs. "You tried to fucking attack me."

The soldier curls on the floor, all the fight gone out of him. Rumlow crouches down, threading a hand through his hair and yanking backwards as the soldier whimpers.

"Look at me." The soldier's wild gaze meets Rumlow's. "You don't attack me or Pierce of Hydra under any circumstances, understand? I know what set you off, even if Pierce doesn't, and you're not allowed to react ever again. Your body belongs to us. We can do whatever the fuck we want with it." He gives the soldier's head a shake. "You got that through your head? You don't have rights, or wants, or anything. You don't even have feelings. You're nothing but a machine. You're going to let anyone touch you however they want and you're not going to do a damn thing because it's not up to you. You have no control. Got it?"

The soldier whimpers. Rumlow smashes his face into the ground before yanking him back up by the hair.

"Got it?"

"Yes," the soldier chokes out, blood streaming down his face. Something inside him shrivels and dies.

Rumlow releases his hair only to grab him and shove him onto his back, the soldier not resisting. Rumlow straddles him and withdraws a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light. 

"You're going to stay still," Rumlow orders. "Don't move a muscle, and don't make a sound. You deserve this."

He cuts away the soldier's shirt and begins to cut into the soldier with dispassionate swipes of the knife, the soldier gritting his teeth and holding perfectly still as pain sears through him. Rumlow moves up his chest and then down his right arm, getting to his fingers. He picks up the soldier's hand, studying it as if bored as the soldier breathes shallowly, body slick with sweat. Then Rumlow slides the flat of the blade under the soldier's fingernail and he jerks, hand pulling away and a cry escaping. Rumlow strikes him across the face.

"I said, stay sill. And quiet."

He picks up the soldier's hand again, digging the knife back in. The soldier feels a tooth crack and black spots dance in front of his eyes, the soldier squeezing them closed against the pain. The knife digs in abruptly and he can't hold back the scream.

"Eyes open."

He opens his eyes, breathing in hitching sobs. Rumlow manages to pry the nail off before moving to the next one, blood running down the soldier's hand. When he's finished all five fingers Rumlow finally lets his hand drop to the floor, wiping the knife on his pants before holstering it once more. The soldier breathes raggedly, eyes glazing over with pain and jaw aching from clenching it. Then Rumlow is moving between his legs, undoing his pants and tugging them down, the soldier not resisting. He is not human. His body is not his own. Rumlow's hand wraps around his throat, squeezing just enough to be painful, weight pinning the soldier down and breaths harsh and loud in the silence. The soldier stays limp and quiet, drifting off into his head as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. He has no control. His body doesn't belong to him. He is nothing. He deserves this.

***

Rumlow slumps over him, hot breath wafting over the soldier's neck. He breathes deeply for a few moments before collecting himself.

"Not a word," he growls in the soldier's ear. "And remember what we talked about." Then he is sliding off, doing up his own pants before throwing the soldier's at him. "Get dressed."

The soldier struggles to sit up, taking shallow breaths as his injuries protest. He's bleeding all over from the shallow knife cuts, fingers nothing more than bloody stumps missing the fingernails. He pushes himself to his feet and pulls his pants on with the metal hand, struggling to fasten them as his metal fingers aren't dextrous enough. Rumlow sighs and moves forward, swatting his hand away to do them up himself. There are still bullet wounds in the soldier's thighs, holes in the fabric of the pants stained with blood all around, and his legs shake under him. Rumlow finishes fastening them and steps back, nodding approvingly. 

"Come on." He strides towards the door, opening it as the soldier takes wobbly steps after him, legs threatening to give out. "He's all yours," Rumlow says, footsteps leaving the room as the techs rush forward to get their arms around the soldier just as he stumbles and starts to fall. 

"Come on," Bowtie says. "Let's get you in the chair." They shuffle across the room and deposit the soldier in the chair, immediately inserting the IV into his hand. Relief rushes through the soldier and he slumps back against the chair as the techs begin to inspect his injuries, guards still posted around the room. Glasses picks up his hand, cradling it gently as he clicks his tongue. 

"These will take a while to heal. The fingernails have to grow back, but there shouldn't be permanent damage."

Bowtie sits on the rolling stool and scoots closer to examine the bullet wounds in the soldier's thighs. "I think they're getting better aim. These should heal no problem."

"Other than that it's just some cuts and bruising." Glasses grabs the soldier's chin, tilting his head as he squints at his face. "I don't think his nose is broken. Looks like he smashed his face against something. Probably the wall." His fingers probe at the bruising, the soldier not flinching except to blink when Glasses prods his jaw. Glasses frowns. "Can you open your mouth for me?"

The soldier opens his mouth painfully, jaw protesting and broken teeth throbbing. Glasses peers inside, finally taking a gloved finger and feeling inside the soldier's mouth. He withdraws it and grimaces, glove bloodied. He strips off his gloves, throwing them in the small trash can in the corner.

"Think we've got some cracked teeth here, maybe even a fractured jaw. We can only hope they'll heal on their own without complications. But I think that's it for injuries."

Bowtie nods. "A few more minutes on the IV and then we can get him cleaned up." He pulls up his own stool next to Glasses, studying the screens surrounding the chair as the soldier stares ahead unblinking, injuries tingling as they heal. After a few minutes the techs take out the IV, the injuries not yet healed but the amount of blood enough to have them healed in a few hours. They help the soldier to the shower room, shooing the guards away.

"It's a shower," Bowtie says, exasperated. "He's docile as a lamb and injured. We'll be fine."

The guards look skeptical but wait outside as the techs close the door in their faces, turning on the water. The soldier goes to take off his pants but can't, metal fingers finding no purchase and right fingers too painful. Bowtie seems to realize and moves forward to help, tugging them down so the soldier can step out of them. The soldier turns to the shower, stepping under the spray.

" _Shit,"_ Bowtie swears quietly. "That fucking...son of a bitch." His footsteps retreat, pulling Glasses out of the room as he starts whispering indistinctly. The soldier focuses on letting the water course over him, washing away the blood even as it stings the healing cuts. After a few minutes the techs returns, carrying a towel and clothes and soap. Bowtie brings the soap over, eyes kind as he hands it to the soldier.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking sincere. "I don't agree with how you're being treated, especially....well. That's just wrong. But it's necessary, to an extent. Hydra is trying to bring order to the world, and you are vital to that mission. I wish there was another way, I really do."

The soldier doesn't respond. He doesn't really understand what Bowtie is trying to say, but he knows it is necessary. He knows Hydra is doing good in the world, and the soldier is vital to that. He is a machine. He follows orders. He is not human. He does not have rights or wants, and his body does not belong to him. He has no control. These are the things he knows. They are all he knows.

"We're going to tell Pierce," Bowtie continues. "About...you know. I don't think he'd condone what Rumlow did to you. He'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

The soldier stays silent, washing with clinical motions. Bowtie sighs, shutting off the shower after the soldier is clean as Glasses comes over with a towel. They dry him off gently, taking care around his healing wounds and even scrubbing his hair slightly, Bowtie untangling a few strands. They help him into his cryo outfit and then lead him back to the room with the chair, sitting him down and not bothering to snap the cuffs over his arms. The guards line the room, anyway, and the soldier will not fight back, so it doesn't seem to matter. The techs disappear and the soldier is left in the chair for hours, staring blankly at the wall. Eventually the techs return, typing away at the screens surrounding the chair. Another hour passes before Pierce strides in followed by Rumlow, the techs getting to their feet.

Pierce stops in front of the chair, studying the soldier. His eyes flick down to his mutilated right hand laying on the armrest and he turns to Rumlow. "I see you got creative. You said he's back to normal?"

Rumlow nods. "Better. You don't have to worry about that happening again."

Bowtie clears his throat. "Director Pierce, may I have a word?"

Pierce frowns. "Certainly."

"Alone."

"Alright." Pierce jerks his head and Bowtie follows him outside the gates, voices indistinct. A moment later they step back inside, Pierce narrowing his eyes at Rumlow. "Is this true?"

"Is what true?"

"I think you know what I'm talking about."

Rumlow's jaw tightens. "Yeah. What about it?" He gestures to the soldier. "It works. Just another method. Doesn't leave scars, either. At this rate, he won't be able to function with the amount of damage to his body. Like you said, I got creative."

Pierce seems to consider this, turning to the soldier to study him. Finally he nods. "Alright. As long as he continues to function and there are no further incidents I don't care what you do or really want to know." He turns to Bowtie. "Don't bother me with such things again. I really don't want to know."

"What-you-" Bowtie sputters. "How can you-?"

Pierce pins him with a look. "You seem to have gotten attached. The Asset is not a pet, or a person. He's a weapon. I don't care what happens to him as long as he does what he's supposed to. You would do well to remember that."

Bowtie deflates. "Apologies, Director Pierce. I am simply concerned for the Asset's functionality given he is under my care. I will admit to becoming slightly attached."

Pierce's face softens into benevolence again. "Of course. I understand. Proceed with the wipe and then put him back in cryofreeze."

Bowtie nods and pushes the soldier back against the chair, Glasses stepping up with something in his hand.

"Bite guard. He fractured his teeth and jaw. Better safe than sorry."

"Open your mouth," Bowtie orders the soldier. The soldier complies, and Glasses slips the bite guard into his mouth. Bowtie taps the screen and the cuffs snap over the soldier's arms, whirring sounding behind his head as his breathing picks up unconsciously. The metal clamps over his face and his mind whites out with pain; he screams, muffled through the bite guard, as Pierce and Rumlow leave the room.

It's a long time before the clamps release him and he slumps, breaths heaving. The cuffs release his arms and hands drag him out of the chair, strapping him into the cryo chamber. His breaths slow as ice creeps up his body and he falls into darkness, relief washing over him. 

***

He's pulled out of cryo and into the chair, IV inserted. 

"Good morning, soldier." Pierce looks slightly older.

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

He shoots the wife and then presses the gun in the target's hand against the target's temple, firing, making it look like a murder-suicide. Hydra police officers will ensure no one questions it. He slips back to the extraction point and they return to base.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated."

"Good job, soldier."

He's led back into cryo, ice creeping over his body.

***

"Good morning, soldier."

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

He plants the bomb, slipping away and watching as orange flames lick the sky before returning to the extraction point and back to the base.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated."

"Good job, soldier."

He's led back to cryo.

***

"Good morning, soldier."

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

This one requires the soldier to stay overnight before continuing the mission. Rumlow rents a hotel room and the soldier slips inside unobtrusively, Rumlow closing and locking the door as a smirk grows over his face.

The soldier's face is pressed to the soft bed, hands loosely tied to the bedposts not for restraints but simply for show. The soldier does not resist, even though he could break them in an instant. Rumlow's hand fists in his hair, gripping painfully. The soldier stays limp and turns his head slightly to press his cheek against the mattress, staring blankly at the wall as he retreats into his head.

He finishes the mission and they fly back, returning to the base. He's led back to cryo, the techs looking older and Glasses' hairline receding even further but their touch still efficient yet gentle. He closes his eyes as the ice creeps up his body.

***

"Good morning, soldier."

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

His metal arm jams halfway through the mission and he botches it slightly, managing to eliminate the target but returning to the extraction point with the metal arm hanging limply. They return to base and an engineer is called in to fix his arm, updating the system until it works better and smoother than it did before.

"You really never touched this for sixty years?" he asks incredulously. "This should have been updated ages ago."

"It seemed to work fine," Pierce replies. "And it was only a couple years between cryo. I trust if we need your services again we can call you?"

"Absolutely. This is the most fascinating piece of engineering I've had the pleasure of working on in, well, ever."

They shake hands and the soldier is led to cryo.

***

"Good morning, soldier."

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

He shoots from the rooftop, an impossible shot for anyone else, the target crumpling to the floor in the building almost a mile away. The soldier slips away, returning to the extraction point and back to base.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated."

He's led back to cryo.

***

"Good morning, soldier."

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

He shoots out the tires of the car, watching as it veers off a cliff. He stalks forward to the edge, watching as a woman with red hair pulls the target out of the car, glancing around wildly. Something about her is off. He can't get a read on her, as if she exists in a sensory blindspot, and there is something familiar about her bright red hair...

She spots him and covers the target with her body, going to draw a weapon. The soldier aims and fires straight through her side, killing the target behind her. She goes down, hand pressed to the wound, but she looks up and her expression is...strange as she looks at the soldier, his enhanced eyes picking it up even from far away. Wondering, almost. 

"Yasha," she whispers, barely audible to his keen hearing. 

The soldier feels something painful in his chest. He turns away, leaving her even though he knows she will survive, that she is a witness. She is not his target, he tells himself. He returns to the extraction point and they drive to the nearest hotel for the night, halfway to the airstrip. Rumlow pushes him down on the bed, taking his time as the soldier lies there and drifts away, mind whirling with flashes of red hair and a small hand in his. In the morning they head to the airstrip and fly back to base, a persistent ache starting in the soldier's head.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated."

"Good. And the Widow?"

"Alive."

"Why?"

"She was not my target."

"But she was a witness. You should have killed her."

The soldier frowns. "I...who was she?"

"The Black Widow. Russian assassin."

He blinks slowly. "She is...different."

"Ah, yes. Of course. She's a vampire like you. I take it you can sense that."

"Yes. I...I knew her."

Pierce hesitates before straightening up. "Wipe him."

The techs push him back into the chair. He opens his mouth for the bite guard, his chest still aching with something like grief, though the soldier does not remember ever feeling grief. He doesn't feel. The cuffs snap around his arms and his breathing picks up, the metal clamping around his head and electricity washing away the last flashes of red hair and a young voice.  _Yasha,_ it echoes through his mind before that, too, is wiped away.

 


	15. Chapter 15

The clamps release his head, the soldier breathing harshly as he comes back to awareness. Everything, memory, is faded, only knowledge remaining. There were missions, but he doesn't remember them. There was pain, and he remembers that. He always remembers that.

Bowtie takes the bite guard out of his mouth. He knows Bowtie, has memories of gentle hands and a soft voice. The cuffs release him and he's led to the shower room, showering before Bowtie shaves his face and Glasses hands him his cryo suit. He puts it on and is led back through the room with the chair to the cryo chamber, strapped inside and the IV inserted. The door closes over him and the techs tap on the screens as ice creeps over him and he sinks into darkness.

***

Warmth flows through him and he sucks in a ragged breath, the ice melting away. The chamber hisses open and hands undo the straps and IV, pulling him out and across the room into the chair and putting in a new IV. He blinks back to awareness, limbs tingling and burning and metal arm recalibrating as the techs move around him. Footsteps sound and Pierce strides into the room, face lined with wrinkles and hair thinning slightly but eyes still blue and piercing.

"Good morning, soldier."

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

The soldier breathes and fires, the target crumpling. He makes his way to the extraction point and they return to the bank. He's walking towards the chair when suddenly something hot bursts in his chest and he falls to his knees, hand clutching at the fiery heat blossoming in the hole where there used to be coldness, a hole he had forgotten about until it filled again. He gasps, feeling the thread of life on the other end, a heartbeat pulsing steadily in his ears.  _Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump, thump thump-_

"What's wrong with him?" Hands grab at him, dragging him into the chair as he struggles slightly, something tugging at him and the life pulsing away in his chest, an echo in his ears.  _Protect,_ something screams.  _Protect._

Glasses shines a light in his eyes, the screens reading out his vitals.

"He's not injured that I can tell. I'm not sure what's wrong."

The soldier takes shallow, gasping breaths, hand still clutched to his chest and tears pricking at his eyes though he doesn't know why. He does not feel.

Glasses pries his hand away and presses a stethoscope to his chest, listening, before pulling back and frowning. "Everything sounds fine. I have no idea."

Bowtie leans closer. "Soldier, can you tell us what's wrong?"

The soldier makes a small sound of distress. "I don't know."

"Does anything hurt?"

"No."

"Why did you put your hand on your chest?"

"I don't know. There's...something. I feel it. Someone. I..." he trails off, confused.

Glasses and Bowtie share a look. 

"Are you still functional?" Glasses questions.

"Yes."

Glasses shrugs, turning to Bowtie. "That's all that matters. Could be psychosomatic."

"Agreed. Soldier, ignore whatever you're feeling. It doesn't matter, as long as you're still functional."

The soldier frowns slightly. The warmth in his chest is  _important,_ he thinks. It shouldn't be ignored. But he knows better than to question. He tries to shove the feeling down, to lock away the golden thread of life pulsing in his chest. It hurts, and it feels  _wrong,_ but he does it. The heartbeat grows fainter in his ears and disappears, only a slight awareness in his chest left, warm and steady. 

"Make note of this," Bowtie is murmuring to Glasses. "I worry his mind is fracturing. Between the wipes and the torture I'm surprised he's still functioning at all. He cannot be used indefinitely. Let's put him back in cryo and tell Pierce only to use him if all other options have been exhausted first. We've needed him less and less as our hold grows stronger and technology advances. We may want to close the program and focus on creating more vampires already loyal to Hydra."

"I agree. The Black Widow is proof that others can be made from him. It may be time to retire the Winter Soldier."

"Let's get him into cryo."

The soldier is dressed in his cryo suit and led to the chamber, the techs strapping him in and inserting the IV. The door closes over him and he closes his eyes, focusing on the ball of warmth in his chest that persists even as cold creeps up his body, the soldier falling into darkness.

***

He's being pulled out of the chamber and dragged into the chair, metal clamping around his face. Electricity sparks through his brain for a minute before the clamps release him, the soldier heaving for breath as awareness returns. Footsteps sound and Pierce stops in front of the chair, face lined and hair greying at the temples, eyes blue and piercing.

"Good morning, soldier."

_"Ready to comply."_

"I have a mission for you."

He waits, following the car chase as agents attempt to eliminate the target. It's messy and there's much collateral damage, civilians hurt and the whole thing too visible for the soldier's liking.  _Amateurs._ The target manages to throw off the agents and the soldier slips onto the street, raising the launcher and firing at the oncoming car. The explosive sticks to the underside and blows up, the car tipping up onto its front end as the soldier smoothly moves out of its path. He strides forward, unhurried, metal arm covered by the jacket and glove and tinted goggles in place over the mask. This is the most visible he's ever been, he thinks, and covering his arm was a must. He reaches the car and rips the door off with his metal hand, peering inside to see a smoldering hole in the ground, the target gone. The soldier knows better than to venture down a small, unknown hole in the ground, and knows the target must be in the sewer system. He'll have to come up eventually. 

The soldier returns to the base, Rumlow waiting for him.

"Mission report."

"Target escaped," the soldier says. "Underground."

Rumlow's jaw tightens. "We'll find him. Stand by."

Rumlow leaves and the soldier sits in the chair, waiting. It's hours before Rumlow returns, the soldier's eyes flicking to him automatically.

"We've found him."

Rumlow gives the address and the soldier's jacket is switched out for the one-armed tactical vest, black paint smeared around his eyes instead of goggles due to the darkness. He makes his way through the darkened streets towards the location, finding a spot on the next rooftop as he peers through the scope into the window of the apartment, waiting for movement. A man enters, something tugging in the soldier's chest. He talks to someone behind the wall in code and the soldier calculates the target's approximate location based on the man's sight lines before firing once, twice, three times, the target toppling forward as the man drags him to safety. The soldier pauses, seeing a female agent come into the apartment and towards the downed target, the man glancing through the window towards the soldier. The soldier turns, beginning to slip away across the rooftop. He senses the man follow him somehow and then hears a crash as he enters the building under the soldier, the soldier picking up into a run. The soldier reaches the end of the rooftop and jumps down onto the next, rolling and continuing on as the man crashes through the window and lands behind him. There's a whoosh, a feeling in his chest, and the soldier doesn't think before turning and catching the shield with the metal hand on instinct. He stares back at the man, the man whose heartbeat echoes in his ears, pulses in his chest where the small ball of warmth lives...

He throws the shield back, the movement natural, and vaults over the edge of the roof, slipping away into the darkness.

He returns to base but only the techs and guards are there, no one to report to. The techs take his tac gear and wipe the paint from his eyes, leading him to the cell and locking him in. The soldier sits in the corner, chest aching slightly and something prickling at his mind. 

***

He thinks it has been a day since he has been put in the cell, at least twenty hours. Finally the door opens and the soldier pushes himself to his feet, seeing the guards standing there. 

"You're to go to Pierce at his home for your orders," the head guard says.

The soldier is given the address and let out of the bank, making his way to Pierce's residence. He slips inside the dark house, sitting at the kitchen table with gun and arm on top of it, clearly visible.  _He must submit all weapons to his handler and arm them in his presence._

He senses the housekeeper bustling around, finishing up for the night. The soldier stays where he is, hidden in the darkness. Eventually Pierce comes into the kitchen, opening the fridge and reaching in to withdraw a milk carton, setting it on the counter and doing a double-take when he sees the soldier. He slowly closes the fridge, expression wary and pulse slightly elevated, the soldier sensing his fear.

"I'm going to go, Mr. Pierce," the housekeeper says distantly. "You need anything before I leave?"

"No. Uh..it's fine, Renata, you can go home," Pierce responds, gaze still trained on the soldier. 

"Okay. Night-night." There's the sound of a door closing and Pierce regains his composure, stance relaxing as he starts to move towards the cupboard.

"Want some milk?" It's...taunting, almost, though the soldier doesn't quite understand why. He knows he is not supposed to respond. He does not eat. He doesn't have wants. Pierce grabs a glass from the cupboard, pouring a small amount of milk into the bottom. "The timetable has moved. Our window is limited. Two targets, Level Six." He takes a sip, moving around the counter to sit down at the table across from the soldier. "They already cost me Zola. I want confirmed death in ten hours."

The soldier senses the housekeeper before Pierce does, the woman entering the kitchen and stopping short. "Sorry Mr. Pierce, I...I forgot my phone..." She trails off, taking in the soldier and eyes widening as she swallows slightly.

Pierce sighs, turning to grab the gun from the table. "Oh Renata. I wish you would have knocked." He shoots twice, the woman falling backwards to the floor as blood starts to pool around her, the scent sharp in the soldier's nose without the mask. Pierce sets the gun back on the table, grimacing in distaste. "I do wish I hadn't had to do that. Now I've got a mess to clean up." He digs out his phone, typing and bringing it to his ear.

"It's Pierce. I need cleanup at my address. Yes. Yes. Thank you." He ends the call, putting the phone back in his pocket. "We'll have more information when we find them. I'm going to get some sleep, come on."

Pierce gets up and the soldier follows, walking through the darkened halls into a bedroom. Pierce pushes up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, pointing to the bed.

"Here, sit down and I'll let you feed. You did well taking out Fury." The soldier sits down on the bed, Pierce drawing closer and stepping to the side until he's standing on the soldier's right, facing him. He extends his wrist and presses it to the soldier's mouth, his other hand resting on the soldier's head. The soldier feels his fangs come down and sinks them into Pierce's wrist, Pierce's hand sliding through his hair and gripping lightly as the soldier drinks. The soldier drinks until he is satiated and then releases his fangs, licking over the wound. Pierce's hand cups his cheek as the other strokes through his hair, making the soldier boneless and sleepy, warm and full from the blood. It is the first gentle touch he can remember. 

"Your work has been a gift to mankind," Pierce says softly. "You've done incredible things. Good things. You've helped to make the world a safer place. But once Insight launches, you will no longer be necessary. You'll be allowed to rest for good. You just need to finish this last mission, and then you're done."

The soldier blinks heavily. Done? No more missions, no more pain? Just rest, forever? He doesn't have wants, but if he did this is all he would want. He wants to be done. He wants it to stop. He'll do anything to make it stop.

He closes his eyes, leaning into Pierce's touch. He feels starved for it, the only gentle touch he remembers the techs' but always clinical and detached, never so intimate and comforting. It makes something settle in his chest, a loosening of the tension and fear stored there. 

Pierce pulls back and the soldier blinks open his eyes, feeling the loss of touch keenly. Pierce starts to undo his tac jacket and the soldier stays still, knowing what's about to happen. But Pierce only takes it off and folds it on the floor, moving around to the other side of the large bed and climbing in, patting the bed next to him.

"I'll let you stay here tonight. A reward before your last mission. It'll make it easier in the morning, anyway."

The soldier follows the order and lies down on the bed, sinking into the soft mattress with two feet still between him and Pierce, Pierce making no move towards him. The soldier doesn't ever remember sleeping in a bed. Rumlow always made him sleep on the floor after he was done with him, the few times he remembers there being a bed. It is...nice. Better than the hard floor of the cell. Pierce shifts, getting comfortable, breaths evening out as he drops off to sleep. The soldier blinks at the ceiling, warm and full and sleepy, the soft mattress pulling him down into darkness within moments.

***

He snaps awake to a sound, loud and repetitive, coming from the phone on Pierce's nightstand. Pierce grunts, waking and sitting up as he grabs his phone and taps it, the sound stopping. 

"Good morning, soldier," Pierce says with a twinkle in his eyes.

The soldier is not sure he's supposed to respond to this so he stays silent, sitting up as well. Pierce gets up, grabbing a pile of clothes on a dresser and heading into the bathroom. He emerges a few minutes later fully dressed, picking up his watch from the nightstand and slipping it on. He picks up his phone, scrolling through something for a while as he frowns. Finally he nods, typing out something before sliding it into his pocket.

"They haven't yet managed to locate the target, but we think they're going to try and stop the launch that's happening tomorrow morning. Your mission is to intercept them before that and eliminate them. Head back to base to get prepped and then you'll ride out with a team as soon as we determine their route."

The soldier pulls on his tac jacket and slips out of the house into the early morning darkness, the sun not yet up. He makes his way back to the base, techs startling upon seeing him before regaining their composure. He sits in the chair as they move around, waiting for orders. Finally, after a few hours, a team of agents comes to retrieve him, saying they have a lead on the targets. They've kidnapped a Shield agent; the soldier is to eliminate him as well for spilling Hydra secrets. He's armed and the techs fit the mask and goggles to his face, sending him out into the armored truck in the midday sun.

They drive onto the causeway, finding the targets' car. The soldier jumps onto the roof, reaching through the window to grab the agent and throw him into oncoming traffic before drawing a gun and shooting through the roof, the car skidding to a stop and the soldier flying off onto the road. He rolls, skidding on one knee as he digs the metal fingers into the pavement to slow his progress. Then he stands slowly, waiting, as the armored truck smashes into the car from behind, bringing it towards him. He flips, landing on the roof and feet smashing the back window, the car skidding down the road as the soldier collects himself and smashes his metal fist through the windshield, ripping out the steering wheel. Gunshots come from inside the car and he jumps back onto the hood of the truck, riding it as it smashes the car again and the car swerves, flipping through the air as the targets fall out through the door onto the pavement. The truck screeches to a halt and the soldier jumps down, taking the dual gun and rocket launcher handed to him and aiming at where the targets are standing, the man holding the shield. The blast hits the shield and sends the man flying off the bridge, the sounds of crashing and horns honking down below. The agents advance, shooting, the soldier strolling in the front as he searches for the red-haired woman. She hides behind a car and returns fire and the soldier fires a round into the car, the woman jumping the median and rolling across the road. The soldier tracks her as she runs behind a car, aims, and fires, the car exploding into flames and the woman disappearing. He strides to the edge of the bridge, looking over with gun at the ready. His gaze lands on the shield by an overturned bus and he assumes the man is in there, going to fire before a gunshot cracks against his goggles, the soldier spinning to sit down heavily against the wall. He raises a hand to his goggles, pulling them off as rage builds. No one ever takes him off guard. He hadn't even sensed her. 

He whirls in one motion, firing wildly over the side of the bridge as the woman takes cover behind a truck and returns fire, the soldier ducking before firing again. The woman turns and flees, dodging bullets as she runs out of range and disappears. The soldier stops, turning slightly to the agent next to him.

_"She's mine. Find him,"_ he says in Russian. Then he vaults over the side of the bridge, crushing a car below. He stalks forward down the street, all senses trained on finding the woman as gunfire sounds behind him, civilians screaming and fleeing. A police car wails as it crosses an intersection and the soldier blows it up, reloading the launcher with practiced moves as he walks unhurriedly down the street, predator chasing prey. He ignores the civilians who run around him, focusing on the faint voice he can hear coming from behind a car. He crouches down in the middle of the street, unhooking a grenade from his belt and rolling it gently under the cars and towards the voice. He readjusts his gun, waiting for her to leap out when she sees the grenade. It explodes and his forehead creases, confused, turning slightly before something kicks his gun away and legs wrap around his shoulders, the woman pulling out a garrote he barely blocks with his flesh hand. He stumbles backwards, struggling, back hitting against a car as he reaches up with his metal hand, grabbing her shoulder and throwing her off. She hits a car, crumpling to the ground, and he goes to pick up his gun again but she throws something and his metal arm goes limp, electricity sparking over it from a small device as she runs away. He rips the device off with his flesh hand, ignoring the sting of electrocution. He flexes his metal fingers into a fist, feeling the damage to the arm, before wrenching his shoulder around to recalibrate it. Hot anger sparks in his chest. It's like the woman occupies a sensory blindspot, and the soldier has never been been so unsettled by an opponent, so caught off guard. He picks up the gun, stalking forward and watching as she runs and screams at civilians, calculating the shot in his head. He aims and fires, the shot going through a car window and catching her in the shoulder. She takes cover behind the car and he keeps moving, jumping onto the hood of a car as he takes aim again.

He senses someone coming on his right and turns, metal fist meeting the shield with a resounding clang. The soldier bats it away, kicking the man in the chest and falling back onto the car, immediately straightening up and shooting at the man as he hides behind the shield. The gun clicks empty and he abandons it, rolling off the car and withdrawing the gun from his back as the man runs around the car for cover. The gun clicks and the man takes the opportunity to leap over the car, kicking the soldier's wrist and making him drop the gun. He pulls out a handgun, the man blocking the bullets with the shield and landing a punch to the soldier's face as his frustration grows, never having been challenged like this before. He grabs the shield and punches under and over it, wrenching it and making the man flip and lose his hold, the soldier sliding his right arm into the straps and using it against the man, the movements natural. He punches the man back with the metal fist, sending him rolling as he straightens up, their eyes locking.

The shield feels...familiar on his arm, and unlike the woman he senses the man keenly, something aching and pulsing in his chest, an awareness that begs to be heard. The man runs towards him and the soldier throws the shield away, embedding it into a car and withdrawing a knife. He flips it, striking at the man and blocking every blow, sensing every movement as if he himself is doing them. Frustration builds, a sense of wrongness pressing at him and chest starting to ache insistently. The man lands a blow and then a spinning kick, sending the soldier flying back to hit a car, the knife falling from his hand. The man runs and drives a knee into his chest, the soldier feeling a rib snap. Hot rage washes over him and he fights back wildly, landing hits on the man before he's flipped to the ground. He surges to his feet, wrapping a metal hand around the man's throat and pulling him closer, studying him.  _Why_ does he feel him like this? Why is he so familiar?

He shoves him away, over the hood of a car, jumping onto it to slam his metal fist into the pavement where the man's head had been only seconds before. They exchange blows again, the soldier kicking him back into a van and withdrawing another knife, the man catching his wrists and the blade sinking into the side of the van. It carves a path through it as they move across the side, the man grabbing the soldier around the middle and flipping him to the ground. The soldier struggles to his feet as the man pulls the shield out of the van, blocking the soldier's increasingly desperate strikes and landing a blow to the metal arm, wedging between the plates. Then the shield is hitting the soldier in the face, the man spinning to grab him by the mask and flip him backwards over his head. The soldier rolls, mask falling to the ground with a soft clink. He gets to his feet, scents rushing in and overwhelming him as he turns back to face the man. 

The man straightens, expression going disbelieving and full of grief, a sudden ache in the soldier's chest and a scent, a familiar scent meeting his nose...

"Bucky?"

"Who the hell is Bucky?" he says, the words slipping out automatically as he raises his gun.

Something hits him hard in the back and he goes flying, rolling on the ground before struggling to his feet. He stares at the man, something tugging at him, a wrongness- _Bucky-_

He can't fail. He pulls out a gun, aiming in one swift motion. A rocket fires from behind the man and he whirls, slipping away as a truck explodes into flames. 

***

 He makes his way back to the base, head pounding and chest aching. _He failed._ He deposits his weapons in the armory and the techs strip off his tactical gear, the mask and goggles lost and most of his guns and knives gone as well. They take off his shirt and sit him in the chair, prodding his broken ribs and inserting the IV into his hand, calling in the engineer after they see the damage to his metal arm. It takes a couple hours before the engineer gets there, white lab coat and gloves making the soldier twitch slightly. The engineer starts on the burn on the forearm, taking off the singed plates to access the circuitry. He replaces the burnt wiring, the soldier reclining in the chair and staring ahead blankly as the hours drag by, head still pounding. The Strike team, minus Rumlow and Rollins, return, replacing the guards to stand around the room facing outwards as the engineer continues to work. Bowtie helps, mask over his face, Glasses working at the screens. Finally the complex circuitry is repaired and the plates buffed and put back on, gleaming silver again as the engineer moves to the bicep where the man's shield had cut into the arm. The plates are pulled back to reveal the damaged and broken circuitry again, the engineer starting to weld the damaged parts. The soldier's head is full of flashes and sounds, growing clearer and clearer and louder and louder as the hours tick by. There's a reel in his head, disjointed memories playing out, wrongness fighting against the dread at having failed his mission. His chest aches and pulses and he brings his right hand to it, feeling the thread that connects to-that connects to....the  _man._ It connects to the man, he thinks, he  _knows._ Memories flash through his mind. 

_Zola, round glasses over beady eyes, a chilling voice. "Sergeant Barnes-"_

_A train, rumbling down the tracks-_

_The man from the bridge, climbing out onto a railing, hand outstretched. "Bucky! No!-"_

_Falling. People. The stump of his left arm. Red blood on white snow-_

_"The procedure has already started-"_

_White lab coats, needles, bright lights-_

_A saw, cutting through his arm-_

_Two hands, metal and flesh, raised. The metal hand around the doctor's throat. A needle stabbed in his thigh-_

_"You are to be the new fist of Hydra-"_

_Zola's face, smiling-_

_"Put him on ice-"_

_His metal hand reaching out, his reflection in the glass as ice creeps up his body-_

His metal arm whirs and he lashes out, sending the engineer flying and the techs running away. The guards whirl, guns cocking and aimed at him as he breathes heavily, head pounding and heart racing with fists clenched. Panic washes over him before he sinks into blankness, hands falling limply to his lap. 

"-unstable, erratic," he hears distantly, as if through a fog, footsteps approaching.

"Mission report."

The voice swirls around him and disintegrates into the numbness pervading everything, the soldier staring ahead unblinking.

"Mission report, now."

A hand strikes his face and he snaps back to reality, blinking as he turns to face Pierce.

"The man on the bridge," he says, raising a hand to his chest, a flash of blonde hair and blue eyes in his mind, a voice- _Bucky-_ as his eyes flick to Pierce, questioning. "Who was he?"

Pierce is bending down to his level, unthreatening, hands on his knees, and he hesitates for a second before answering. "You met him earlier this week on another assignment."

The soldier contemplates this, fingers digging into his chest. Yes, he remembers the mission, remembers seeing the man but no, that's not it, it's something else... "I knew him." He's sure of it, now. He can  _feel_ him.

Pierce pulls up a stool, sitting down, and the soldier senses his uncertainty, his fear and suddenly knows that something is wrong. Pierce isn't going to answer his question. Something is  _wrong._

"Your work has been a gift to mankind," Pierce says, and the soldier feels resentment build. "You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time."

_One more time._ Pierce said that before, said this mission was his last, but the soldier failed. Now there is one more. One more mission, and then he can rest. He wants to rest. He feels himself relent slightly.

"Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning, we're going to give it a push. But, if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

_Hydra is trying to make the world a safer place, and when you disobey orders you threaten that. I'm the good guy here. Don't make me have to hurt you to ensure you do your part._  He's doing good, isn't he? He's doing his part. Hydra is right. But they made him go after the man, the man who the soldier  _knows,_ who he feels in his chest, who sparks something deep inside him that screams  _protect._ And if they are against the man and the soldier knew the man, then....then they are wrong. Something is wrong. He  _knows_ this. 

He tilts his head. "But I knew him." 

Pierce sighs, contemplating, before getting up. "Prep him."

The soldier feels a pang.  _No._ This is  _wrong._

"He's been out of cryofreeze too long," Bowtie says hesitantly.

Pierce turns to the soldier. "Then wipe him, and start over."

There is a crushing weight in his chest, something like grief, and hopelessness, and anger. He  _trusted_ Pierce. He thought he was right, but this is  _wrong._ Something is wrong. He  _knew_ the man, and they are going to take it from him. 

The techs remove his hand and push him back in the chair and he doesn't resist, conditioning winning out. There is no point in resisting. They will wipe him, and they will hurt him, over and over and over again. He has no control. His body is not his own. Neither is his mind. 

He opens his mouth for the bite guard, locking eyes with Pierce in one final show of defiance, the only thing he has left. The cuffs snap around his arms and he's jerked back tight against the chair, breaths heaving and body trembling as the halo whirs over him. His hands tighten into fists and he squeezes his eyes shut briefly, a small whimper escaping as fear consumes him. _No, please._ The metal clamps over his head and electricity sparks through his brain, the soldier screaming around the bite guard as his world whites out in pain. The warmth in his chest flickers and goes quiet and the memories flash by only to disappear into nothingness, as if they never existed at all.

_Bucky,_ he thinks, before the name shatters like glass and is swept away, the soldier's screams echoing off the walls.

***

The clamps release his head and he slumps, breathing harshly and head lolling against the headrest. Everything is fuzzy, nothing in his head except for blankness. He doesn't remember what happened before, only that he had questioned, or maybe failed, or...something, and he was put in the chair for a long time, longer than he ever remembers before. He thinks there was a mission, many missions, but he doesn't remember them. He doesn't remember anything, really. It's all a blank.

A hand finds his face and takes out the bite guard, the soldier blinking heavily. Fingers pry open his eyes, shining a light in them as he squints.

"Did we do it too long? We've never done it for so long before."

"No, I think he's fine. We might have to start over, though, like Pierce said to. I doubt he remembers much."

A hand pats his cheek. "Soldier?"

The soldier tries to focus, faces swimming in his vision. He grunts, throat raw. 

"Can you hear me?"

He struggles to speak. "Yes," he finally rasps, blinking as the faces resolve into...Bowtie and Glasses, he thinks, though the memories are foggy.

They sigh in relief. "Good. What do you remember?" Bowtie asks.

He searches. "I don't know."

"Do you know what you are, what Hydra is?"

"Yes." The knowledge is there, floods in as awareness returns, but the memories stay out of reach. He is the Winter Soldier. He is not human. He is a vampire; a machine. He serves Hydra. He does his part. Hydra is doing good; making the world a safer place.  _One more time._ He has no control. His body is not his own. Pain. He does remember pain.

"Good. We're going to finish fixing your arm. Do you remember how you damaged it?"

"No."

The techs nod, scurrying away and returning with a man in a white lab coat who approaches the soldier hesitantly, heart pounding with fear.

"He's secure?"

"Can't move a muscle," Bowtie assures.

The man pulls up a stool by the soldier's metal arm, withdrawing instruments and bending over it as he starts to work. The soldier stares ahead unblinking, mind blank. Finally the man finishes and leaves, the cuffs releasing the soldier.

"Pierce will be in to brief you," Glasses says. "You remember who Pierce is?"

"Yes."

They exit the room and return minutes later with Pierce and Rumlow in tow, talking indistinctly. Pierce stops in front of the soldier, studying him.

"He doesn't remember?"

"I don't think so," Bowtie replies. 

"Good." Pierce addresses the soldier. "You have one last mission, tomorrow morning. The Insight Helicarriers are launching, but there will be people, bad people, trying to stop them. Your primary mission is to ensure they launch. Your secondary mission is this man." Pierce taps on his phone before showing the screen to the soldier. It's a man in a red, white, and blue uniform, with chiseled features and blue eyes under smooth blonde hair, something almost familiar about his face. He reminds him of Pierce, the few images he has of Pierce as a younger man.

"This is Captain America," Pierce says. "He's extremely dangerous, and enhanced. You're to eliminate him, understood?"

"Yes."

Pierce hesitates. "Do you still feel something, a connection maybe?"

The soldier blinks, confused, before his hand comes up to his chest in an unconscious movement, pressing at something there. Pierce's lips flatten into a thin line. 

"As I thought." He turns to Rumlow. "I want him 100% functional by morning, and I want there to be no chance of the connection affecting him. Do whatever you need to. Make him avoid the very thought of it. Destroy it. Turn him against it. Understood?"

Rumlow nods. "I'll handle it."

***

The cuffs release and the soldier crumples to the ground, lying limp as his eyes stare into nothing, unblinking. Rumlow's footsteps retreat and the door creaks open.

"He's all yours."

There's lighter footsteps approaching, soft hands touching the soldier and voices swirling around him. 

"Come on, we need you to get up."

The soldier struggles to his feet, swaying. Arms wrap around him and help him from the room, depositing him in the chair as an IV is inserted into his hand. He stares ahead blankly, feeling empty and cold, the warmth in his chest tightly locked away beneath layers of pain. He  _hates_ it. It is a malfunction, something that only brings pain. It is  _bad._ He wants it to  _stop._ He wants everything to stop.  _He doesn't have wants._

There are hands on him, removing the IV, and he blinks back to semi-awareness. He has lost time, he thinks vaguely. His injuries are healing, body tingling and burning and hunger quieted. 

"Come on."

He follows the techs, stepping into the shower room and stripping robotically before stepping under the spray. Soap is handed to him and he washes, fingers running unevenly over the scars littering his body and water stinging the healing cuts on his back. When he's clean the techs shut off the shower and dry him, dressing him in tactical pants and a shirt. He's led back into the cell and shut in, sitting in the corner with back pressed to the wall, staring into nothingness.

***

Strike retrieves him in the morning, the soldier dressed in his tactical gear with new weapons strapped in place, no mask or goggles or even black paint, his face clean and bare. He's driven to the location and waits, sitting in the van. Finally chaos erupts around the launch site, Shield and Hydra agents turning on each other, and the soldier is released. He blows up quinjets as he strides across the airstrip, shooting agents and catching a grenade and lobbing it into one of the jets, blocking fire with the metal arm to kick an agent into another. He strides to the last quinjet, shooting the pilot through the roof and ripping the glass of, getting inside. He flies it up to the Helicarrier above him, waiting for the target to appear. 

 The man with wings drops the target onto the deck. The soldier lunges forward, shoving the target off the edge. The man with wings goes to help the target but the soldier grabs him by the wing, throwing him back. The man shoots at him and the soldier spins, dodging the bullets and taking cover behind a large structure, taking out a grappling hook as the man attempts to fly off again and shooting it through his wing. He pulls, sending the man to the ground, and with a yank rips the wing off before running forwards to kick him off the edge, watching the target clinging to the edge below him. 

The soldier moves to the center console of the Helicarrier, having watched the target and his allies switch out the chips on the others and knowing he has to prevent this last one from being hijacked and ensure the launch. He can't fail. The target makes his way towards him, slowing to a stop on the other end of the small bridge leading to the console. He's wearing a red, white, and blue suit that makes something spark in the soldier's mind, shield on his arm, and his eyes are full of grief as he stares at the soldier.

"People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen."

The soldier doesn't respond, meeting his eyes evenly, waiting for him to make a move. There is nothing but the mission. Nothing else matters. 

"Please don't make me do this." His voice is broken, pleading.

The soldier tilts his head down, readying for the fight. He ignores the words that cut like daggers, the warmth pulsing in his chest, the scent that is so familiar. They will only bring pain.

The man takes a breath, seeming to gather himself, before flinging the shield. The soldier draws a gun and blocks it with his metal arm, firing as the target catches the shield again and blocks the bullets. The soldier is ruthlessly efficient and focused, whirling and spinning to switch the gun to his right hand and fire under the shield, grazing the target's side. The target slams him back with the shield, the soldier getting to his feet and rage sparking as he withdraws a knife. He comes towards the target again, his strikes blocked and the soldier shoved back as the target begins to work at the console. The soldier strikes again, both of them locked into battle and the knife still clutched in the soldier's hand. The soldier grabs the edge of the shield with the metal hand, plates shifting as he pushes against it until the target rips the knife out of his hand, kicking the soldier back with a boot to the chest and turning to the console again. He removes the chip, putting it in his belt and turning as the soldier throws a punch with the metal fist, the blow ringing against the shield. The target pushes him back onto the walkway, the soldier dodging his blows and countering with the metal arm. The target lands a hit to his face and hot rage washes over him, the soldier throwing himself at the target with a frustrated scream and shoving them both over the railing.

They land on a projection below, the new chip sliding out of the target's hand. The soldier attacks again, the target matching him blow for blow. The soldier's arm whirs and he lashes out, flinging the target away. The target grabs the chip as he slides down the projection, the soldier falling onto his elbow and knee pads and following. He grapples for the target's arm, the chip falling from the target's hands to the floor below. The target strikes the soldier hard in the face, stunning him, before kicking him off the projection. The soldier hits the ground hard, the target jumping down after him and running towards the chip as the soldier picks up the shield that had fallen to the floor and throws it at the target, hitting him in the back before drawing a gun and firing as the target quickly grabs the shield and blocks the bullets. The soldier throws the gun away, moving forward and batting away the thrown shield with his metal arm as he withdraws another knife. He strikes quickly, desperately, sinking the knife into the target's shoulder and drawing a cry of pain from him. The target head-butts him, the soldier shoving him away as his eyes land on the chip. The target pulls out the knife as the soldier crawls towards the chip, grabbing it in his flesh hand. The target grabs him by the throat, lifting him into the air as he chokes before flipping him to the ground, arm pulled back and hand pressed to the soldier's face.

"Drop it!"

The soldier struggles, swatting ineffectively at him with his metal arm.

"Drop it!"

The target wrenches the soldier's arm, breaking it with a snap. The soldier screams before swallowing it down, hand still clutching the chip tightly. The target pulls them to the floor, putting the soldier in a chokehold as the soldier struggles and pries at him with his metal arm. He grabs the target's hand, plates shifting as he wrenches it down, but the target only takes the opportunity to pin the soldier's metal arm under his leg, other arm still wrapped around his throat. The soldier chokes, black spots dancing in front of his eyes before darkness rushes in and he falls limp.

He blinks open his eyes to see the target hurrying away, towards the console, everything spinning around him. He staggers to his feet, drawing a gun and firing at the blurry form. He hits him in the thigh, aiming again as the target gets up and keeps climbing upwards. The next shot catches him in the shoulder, the target faltering but reaching the console, withdrawing the chip. The soldier aims one last time as he goes to put the chip in, knowing he can't fail. The shot rips through the target's midsection, sending him to the ground and the soldier feels grim satisfaction. He lowers the gun, swaying with relief, but then the target is getting up and inserting the chip before the soldier can react, and his whole world crumbles. He failed. 

The Helicarrier shifts, guns locking into position.

"Fire now!" he hears the target shout. "Do it! Do it now!"

There's a pause and then the Helicarriers start to fire on each other, shaking apart. The soldier dodges the fire but a heavy beam collapses onto him, pinning him down. He feels his ribs cracking under the weight on his chest and deep bruises being pressed into his thighs. He strains, but its no use. He's trapped, and animal panic starts to claw at him. He failed. He failed and he's trapped, helpless as the target makes his way down to him. The soldier struggles again, knowing the target is going to hurt him, kill him, breathing heavily as he watches the target with fearful eyes. But the target lifts the beam, straining with his injuries, the soldier slipping free before the beam is set down again with a slam. The soldier struggles to his feet, bent over, broken arm throbbing and breaths harsh through broken ribs as he looks at the target, the smell of his blood sharp and familiar in the soldier's nose.

"You know me," the target says.

Desperate fear claws at him, the denial ingrained with pain and screams.  _No._

"No I don't!" he yells, lashing out with his metal arm, falling to the floor once more. The target gets to his feet.

"Bucky."

The soldier glances up without knowing why, confusion and fear warring within him. No, no, he doesn't, he  _can't,_ they hurt him for this, he can't know the man, it is too much and his head hurts and something aches and pulses in his chest, screaming. He wants it to  _stop,_ he can't, he can't-

"You've known me your whole life."

He lashes out with a yell, both of them falling to the ground. The target struggles to his feet again.

"Your name...is James...Buchanan...Barnes."

_Make it stop make it stop make it stop-_

"Shut up!" he screams, metal fist crashing against the shield and knocking the target down. He pulls himself to his feet as the target removes his helmet, facing the soldier. The face is familiar but the soldier  _can't,_ he can't know him or everything is wrong, it's all a lie, and they will hurt him,  _he's not allowed to question, he can't fail-_

"I'm not gonna fight you." The target lets his shield drop through an opening on the floor as he meets the soldier's eyes evenly, resolutely. "You're my friend."

The soldier breathes, something jagged inside, confusion and pain and fear battling for dominance. Anger surges and he lunges forwards with a cry, catching the target around the middle and pinning him to the ground.  _Make it stop._

"You're my mission," he snarls. His metal fist cracks against the target's face over and over, anger and fear washing over him. He wants it to stop, he wants the man to stop making everything hurt, he wants the familiar face to go away, the familiar smell to stop and the ache, the horrible ache in his chest to  _stop, make it stop, make it stop-_

"You're-my-mission!" he screams with each punch, willing himself to believe it, to finish it, he can't fail,  _he can't-_

He pauses, breathing heavily, drawing his fist back as he stares down at the target. The target who is looking up at him with inexplicable sadness, no anger or fear in his eyes. Just calm acceptance, and grief, one eye swollen shut but the other one blue and familiar.

"Then finish it," he says, as the soldier heaves for breath above him, teeth bared in a snarl.  _He can't fail._ "Cause I'm with you to the end of the line."

Something breaks inside the soldier, the ache in his chest turning warm and bright.  _Protect,_ it screams.  _Protect._ The soldier feels his arm lower as horror crashes over him, tears pricking at his eyes at he stares down at the man, the man he  _knows_ somehow, the man he knows deep in his soul he's supposed to protect, not hurt.

Something crashes through the floor and the man is ripped away, the soldier's arm latching onto a beam as he hangs there, watching him fall. He doesn't think before letting go, deja vu crashing over him as he falls through the air, hitting the water. He swims down, sensing exactly where the man is, an awareness in his chest growing stronger and stronger. He latches onto him with his metal hand, kicking upwards until he breaks the surface. He kicks to shore, finding his footing as he drags the man onto the bank, letting him drop. He stares at him, seeing water trickle out of the man's mouth and his chest rise and fall evenly. Alive. The feeling in his chest tell him this, too, tells him the man will live. 

He stumbles away, broken right arm cradled to his chest and head pounding, the man's heartbeat echoing in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is the end of Part 1, Part 2 is [**Out of Darkness**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865116)


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